


Misery By Design

by notinmyvocab



Series: Misery [5]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/F, No Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited, because apparently I have to clarify that, but no one is feeling fine, isabel just wants one normal day, it gets a little kinky, it's the end of the world as we know it, the cooperative isn't the illuminati
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 40,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notinmyvocab/pseuds/notinmyvocab
Summary: Things weren't perfect, but Isabel Noble was coping. Then the apocalypse hit. It literally can't get worse... except for the fact that the Antichrist is her nephew.





	1. Prologue

It was a gray day; gloomy. No birds, not even a glimpse of sun. The air was thick, threatening rain but not following through. It made Isabel want to scoff. When her father died, the saddest day of her life, the sun had been bright and shining. Now, on a day Isabel was doing everything but grieving, the darkest clouds blocked the golden beams, casting everything in a cool shadow.

Isabel stood at the freshly filled grave. It had been the world’s smallest funeral: only her and a man. Everyone else Constance knew was already dead.

Burn scars were etched in the man’s face, a constant reminder of pain. He kept an appropriate distance. Isabel knew him as Larry Harvey and for a long time, she didn’t know why he mattered. His presence in the cemetery gave her the answer.

He was her father.

Well, her birth father. Derek Noble was her father; a single parent raising Isabel like she was his own before his untimely death three years ago.

Isabel worried the entire time that Larry would try and approach her, give condolences; maybe he would hug her and cry. Instead, they locked eyes and came to an understanding: this wasn’t a sad time. Bitter, perhaps, but not sad and comforting each other was unnecessary. Both of them knew that Constance wasn’t really gone.

And maybe Isabel would talk to Larry Harvey someday. But that day, she had other plans.

She got into her black Chevy Impala, and drove back home.

Should she cry? She did just attend her birth mother’s funeral. And she was the one to find the body. There was a small part of her that was shaken and sad, but tears just wouldn’t come. Instead, Isabel got out of her car and stared at the Murder House, which stared back. It didn’t challenge her; did not dare her to try and survive. It accepted her. This was home, and she would always end up back here.

With a heavy sigh, Isabel went in.

“How did it go?” Constance asked as Isabel kicked off her heels in the foyer, shrinking by two inches when she did so.

“Small, just like you asked.” Isabel smoothed out the plain black dress she wore to the funeral. “I’m still mad at you,” she added, walking past Constance to get herself a drink from the kitchen.

Constance rolled her eyes, following her daughter to the kitchen. “Still mad? A grudge will get you nowhere, dear. Aren’t you being rather overdramatic?”

“I leave for a week and come back to find that you’ve killed yourself in the house. But yes, I’m the dramatic one.” She poured herself a generous amount of deep red wine that she always kept stocked in the house.

“For Christ’s sake, get ahold of yourself.”

“You want me to get ahold of myself? You’re dead!”

“And you should be in mourning. Honestly Isabel, have you any ounce of compassion?” Constance asked as she took the wine glass from her daughter, stealing a sip for herself, to which Isabel responded with a less than amused expression. Setting the glass down, Constance cupped Isabel’s cheek. “Chin up, dear. We’re together now. As it should be.”

“Because you living right next door wasn’t enough?” Still, Isabel leaned into Constance’s touch.

Their relationship was complex and there was too much to unpack. But despite the bitterness and hostility that remained, it was oddly comforting to Isabel to no longer be alone. Her adoptive father was dead. Her birth father wasn’t involved (though she was sure that he wanted to be) and while she enjoyed the company of the tens of ghosts in the Murder House, having her mother who was constantly making a conscious effort to be present was… nice.

“Well, you can’t do anything more insane than killing yourself in the house so I guess I don’t have to worry about you pulling any crazy shit anymore.”

“Honey, I’m your mother. I will always be pulling crazy shit.”

Constance was pleased. There was nothing Isabel could do to change this, and now she was in the house with three of her children: Isabel, Tate, and Beauregard. Her heart ached for her darling Adelaide, who didn’t make it to the property on the night of her passing, but now she would be with the rest of her family forever.

But forever was a lot shorter than any of them realized.


	2. Chapter One

Isabel was getting sick at looking at the blinking cursor. She could only stand looking at the computer for so long. The screen was beginning to hurt her eyes. Maybe she would invest in a typewriter to write her manuscripts. Her literary agent would loathe that.

Isabel had two books out there in the world under the name Z. Langdon, and her literary agent, Nancy, was hungry for a third manuscript. Isabel hadn’t been able to provide. She had been hoping for a flood of inspiration after Constance’s funeral. But here she was, months later, and nothing came to mind.

There was a knock on the study door and Moira walked in with a cup of tea. Despite being just as dead as the other occupants, she preferred the ways of the living: knocking before entering rooms, going through the hallways rather than just appearing. Isabel appreciated it.

“How’s the book coming along?” Moira asked, setting the teacup next to the shut laptop.

“It’s coming.” Isabel picked up the tea and sipped, jumping a little as it stung the tip of her tongue.

“Careful it’s―”

“Hot, yeah, I got that.” Isabel set the tea down and leaned back in her chair. “Fucking writer’s block…”

“You just need to take a break. Stop staring at screens. I heard that the best way for a writer to spend her time is to read.” Moira walked over to the bookshelf, eyes roaming over the titles.

Derek kept an eclectic selection of novels ranging from autobiographies to science fiction. Though not a speck of dust rested on the shelves, Moira knew, being the one that dusted, that the books hadn’t been touched in months, probably since Derek’s passing. Isabel could put a fond smile on her face, use Derek’s study as her own, but Moira saw the pain in her eyes every day.

Moira reached out, her fingertips brushing against the spines in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Isabel flinch as ghosts of the past were disturbed. Moira knew better than to take one off of the shelf. Too much, too fast. Instead, she turned and faced Isabel. “Take the afternoon off. Read,” she instructed. “And drink your tea.”

When Moira left, Isabel picked up the teacup and sipped it with caution, pleased to find that it cooled down somewhat. She set it aside and walked over to the books.

There was an overwhelming number of titles, and nothing was organized; it was a nightmare to look at, and it made Isabel smile fondly. Despite the disorganization, Derek would have known exactly where every title was. She reached out to grab a book without even reading the name, but stopped herself before she could touch it.

She returned to her cup of tea, letting the warmth soothe her.

Was she being ridiculous? They were just books; she ought to be able to pluck one from the shelf, no problem.

But it was a problem.

A problem for another time.

Isabel finished her tea, and used the empty cup as an excuse to leave the room. She brought it to the kitchen, taking her time with washing it despite not needing to what with a maid and a dishwasher. But Isabel enjoyed the distraction: the warm water running over her hands, nearly hot enough to burn her but not quite; the clean smell of the dish soap that made soft suds.

It didn’t take long enough. She needed to do something; keep her mind busy. Baking, yes that would do that trick.

Isabel dried the teacup and put it back in the cupboard before taking out everything she would need to make chocolate cupcakes from scratch, a process that would take up a lot of her time. This was relaxing, wasn’t it? Sure she wasn’t reading like Moira suggested, but at least she wasn’t losing her mind at the computer screen.

It didn’t take long for the kitchen counters to become covered with flour and abandoned eggshells.

“You’re sad.”

Isabel turned to see Tate standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He was watching her forlornly, as if saddened by her sadness. It always struck Isabel as odd that murderer could look so much like a wounded puppy.

“Am I that obvious?”

“You bake aggressively when you’re sad.”

“No I don’t,” Isabel insisted before slamming an egg down on the counter to crack the shell. However, instead of just cracking, the egg shattered, yolk seeping between Isabel’s fingers. “Coincidence,” she said quickly, Tate not believing that for one second.

She cleaned up the eggy mess, and as she washed her hands, she said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?”

“Why? You’re not going to tell me.”

“Good point.” She turned off the tap and returned to her mixing bowl. “How are you, by the way?” Isabel asked. Yes, it was a deflection, but also a genuine question. She and Tate never talked about their mother being part of the house and considering how much Tate loathed Constance (more than Isabel did), it was a difficult situation to be in.

“I’d say surviving but…” As he trailed off, he gestured to his ghostly body, and Isabel laughed.

“Fair enough.” She supposed she was surviving as well. Having Constance around wasn’t as awful as she initially thought it would have been. It wasn’t great, and it wasn’t a preference of hers, but she was surviving.

Was she though? Isabel thought back to the bookshelf. It was stupid; she ought to be able to take a book. But the thought of disturbing what belonged to Derek made her stomach twist.

Cleaning up his desk hadn’t been a problem. She filed away the papers, storing them safely so that they could do what she was barely doing: survive. The rest of the study remained untouched, though. Could she really disturb the bookshelf after so many years?

Tate watched as Isabel mixed the cupcake batter, her eyes glazed over in thought. He walked over to her and put an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her. “Let me know when you’re done,” he murmured. “I want to lick the spoon.”

Isabel grinned faintly, and Tate vanished.

Another cupcake tin filled and in the oven, Isabel cleaned up the kitchen to prevent herself from making more than the numerous batches she already made. She watched the timer on her phone counting down; it dragged on for ages. She tapped her foot restlessly, her mind constantly trailing back to the bookshelf.

She was being dumb. It was just a bookshelf. They were just books! Besides, wouldn’t Derek want her reading from his collection? He’d probably lose his mind if he knew all of that literature was wasting away untouched.

With a few minutes left on the clock, Isabel abandoned her post in front of the oven and went to the study.

She grabbed a random book off of the shelf: _War of the Worlds_ by H.G. Wells. Her heart ached as the books were disturbed, but holding the novel in her hand brought a sense of comfort that she had been missing for years.

Isabel opened the book and rifled through the pages, letting her fingertips caress each edge. As she did so, a thick rectangle fell to the floor; an envelope.

Frowning, Isabel picked it up and read it over. It read “Happy Birthday! –Nancy and the gang.” She opened the envelope, pulling out a plane ticket with the destination being a place called Outpost 3.

Her phone went off, signaling that it was time to take the cupcakes out of the oven. Isabel ignored it, reading over the envelope and the ticket again and again. Outpost 3? She never heard of such a place.

“Unless your intent is burning the house down, which I don’t recommend, I’d suggest taking those cupcakes out of the oven,” said Moira from the doorway. “What have you got there?”

“I don’t know,” Isabel answered, still studying the document. “Do you mind getting the cupcakes? I have to make a phone call.” Isabel took out her phone as she spoke, and pulled up Nancy’s number.


	3. Chapter Two

Nancy was not Isabel’s favorite person. There was always a disconnection between them. But Nancy was a good literary agent. Derek wouldn’t have kept her around his whole career if she wasn’t. There was a brief period of time when Nancy and Derek ending up together as a couple seemed likely. Isabel hated that even to this day, but was good at not reflecting on it often. Nancy remained only as Derek’s agent and like fine china in a will, Nancy was passed down to Isabel after Derek’s death. They were civil, and that was what mattered.

Isabel waited for Nancy at the café they chose to meet at, sipping her coffee. It was quiet; peaceful. It reminded Isabel of the café she worked out when she lived in New Orleans before moving back to Los Angeles after Derek’s passing.

Did she ever consider going back? Yes. There were times when Isabel considered packing up her things and going back to the Big Easy. There were times when Isabel considered going back to Miss Robichaux’s. But she always found a way to stay put.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Nancy as she sat down at the table across from Isabel. “Didn’t think I was going to be late. So, have you got another manuscript for me?” She sounded hopeful, but Isabel would have to be the bearer of bad news.

“No manuscript, sorry.” It would happen at some point, but for the time being it didn’t matter. Isabel put the envelope she discovered in Derek’s copy of _War of the Worlds_ on the table and slid it over to Nancy. “What can you tell me about this?”

Nancy picked up the envelope and took out the ticket. She raised her eyebrows. “I completely forgot about this… it was a joke for Derek’s birthday. A group of us pitched in. It’s a ticket to a fallout shelter if the apocalypse ever happened.”

It seemed like a very specific joke. Isabel didn’t understand it, and she wasn’t about to try. “Oh, so it isn’t real then?”

“No, it’s real.”

There was a pause.

“But you just said it was a joke…?” Isabel said, not quite following Nancy.

“Right.”

“So it’s not real.”

“No,” Nancy corrected, handing the ticket back over to Isabel. “It’s completely real. The joke was reserving him a spot at Outpost Three.”

“But the ticket says this cost a hundred million dollars.”

“Yes.”

“So you and some friends dropped a hundred million dollars on a ticket for a fallout shelter… as a joke?” It didn’t make any sense! “Why didn’t you just Photoshop the ticket?!”

“Because the ticket itself isn’t the joke,” Nancy said, wondering why Isabel wasn’t understanding this when it was so simple. “The joke was having a spot reserved in his name.”

“So you spent all that money to reserve him a spot at a fallout shelter… that may not even exist?” Isabel said slowly, trying to find some ounce of sense in any of this and coming up short.

“It exists.”

“So you’ve seen it?”

“Well, no.”

Feeling like she was going to lose her goddamn mind, Isabel decided to just let the matter go. It didn’t matter anymore. Derek was dead, and the ticket was useless to begin with. The apocalypse? Isabel was not a stranger to weird and catastrophic events, but even with her experience of the world, it didn’t seem likely.

“Anyway,” Nancy continued, “about that manuscript.”

“’’”””’’’””’’””’’””””’”

With her coffee paid for, and the promise of a manuscript on her tongue, Isabel left the café. She was still holding onto the ticket to the mysterious Outpost 3. Nancy wouldn’t take it back, so now it belonged to Isabel, not that she had much use for it.

As soon as she got home, Isabel went to the kitchen to throw away the ridiculous ticket. Yes, it was a waste of a hundred million dollars, but holding onto it was pointless. She wasn’t ever going to use it, so it was a waste anyway.

Isabel was about to let the ticket go and let the damn thing fall into the trashcan when Constance suddenly grasped her wrist, her fingernails digging into Isabel’s skin.

“Fuck!” Isabel exclaimed in both surprise and pain.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hold onto that and keep it in a safe place,” Constance warned.

“Why? It’s just a stupid ticket to a fallout shelter that probably doesn’t really exist.” Isabel’s glare softened when she looked into Constance’s eyes and saw how serious she was being.

When Constance had been alive, she was gifted with the power of clairvoyance; magic passed down to the women in their family line, and it seemed the gift translated over into death.

“What did you see?” Isabel asked, not even trying to mask the fearful tone.

“Nothing good.” Constance released Isabel’s wrist. “Hang onto that, and start packing.”

“But―”

“Hush up, and listen to your mother.”  

And she did. Isabel did as Constance said: she put the ticket to Outpost 3 back in Derek’s copy of War of the Worlds, and packed a small bag of essentials: notebook, plethora of pens, and her father’s first book _The Matinee Massacre_. She didn’t know exactly how the apocalypse was going to go down, but it was always good to have something to read, no matter the occasion.

Days passed since Constance’s warning. Those days turned into weeks, and they were the most productive weeks Isabel ever had. Every day she was in the study, typing up a first draft with reckless abandon. With the apocalypse coming, her inner critic shut up because what did it matter if what she wrote was good? Nothing mattered anymore.

There were times when she would forget. On sleepless nights, Isabel would scroll through one account on YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter: SallyThatGurl. Songs, angst-ridden tweets; the epitome of grunge. Isabel loved Sally McKenna’s accounts.

Sometimes, Isabel considered DMing Sally, saying how much she loved her work, or that she missed her. But Sally was a ghost of the past. It was best to just get lost in her content to forget the horror that awaited the world. Besides, if she reached out to Sally, it would turn into a mess and Isabel didn’t want to deal with that. Instead, she was content to stay in the study and write for hours on end.

“Just one more chapter,” Isabel said proudly as Constance stood in the doorway of the study one day. “One more chapter and I’ll be done.” She was beaming, relieved and beyond pleased that she actually managed to get her shit together.

Constance smiled in return, but it was sad.

Isabel felt her heart drop. “No, no it can’t be time already. I’m not done yet!” she argued, as if Constance chose when the end of the world was going to happen. “I just have to finish this one chapter. I―I’m not done yet!”

“The roads will be chaos. If you leave now, you won’t run into trouble.”

“But I’m not done yet!” Isabel said again as she stood up from the desk, infuriated and hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t ready.

“Isabel,” Constance said sharply, a mother who would not be argued with. “It’s time to go.”


	4. Chapter Three

Anxiety replaced her blood as she sat in the jet, leg bouncing restlessly.

Leaving early was smart, but now Isabel was left to wait until the jet took off. With waiting came guilt. Was it too late to get off this thing and go back home; spend the last few minutes of life with the people she loved? She desperately wanted to, but Isabel knew that if she showed up back at the Murder House, Constance would kill her.

She shuddered to think what would happen to all of the souls trapped there. Would they be obliterated as well? Or would they forever roam the land that would be devastated by nuclear attacks?

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Isabel pulled out her phone and looked up SallyThatGurl on YouTube. She played Sally’s most popular song: “Track Marks on My Heart,” but was interrupted by the door of the jet opening and a group of people bursting in.

“Who the fuck is this?” Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt asked, her tone a mixture of hostility and confusion. Isabel recognized her from Instagram. “I thought this was a private jet!”

“It is,” Isabel said, pausing her music. “Private for people going to the outpost. That _is_ where you’re all going, right?” There were so many of them: Coco, a young woman with glasses, a man with bleached hair, and an elderly woman who wore her age with denial. Coco, Mallory, Gallant, and Evie stared back at Isabel.

“This sucks!” Coco whined. “It’s bad enough I have to bring these losers along, but I don’t even get my own jet? I want a transfer!”

As soon as Coco’s demand leapt from her lips, gun shots rang out followed by shouts of pain and protest, employees of the hangar storming the jet.

“Looks like you’ll have to suck it up!” The young woman with glasses yanked the door shut.

The jet rumbled and shook as the engine started up. There was arguing over who was going to sit where. Isabel tuned it all out with help from her headphones. She listened to “Track Marks on My Heart” and then the entire discography of Elsa Mars, feeling comforted by an old favorite though it was difficult to hear over the pounding of her heart.

A bang, and the jet rocked violently. Isabel yanked her headphones out of her ears and looked out the window in time to see nothing but a burning glow that spread for miles. Her stomach twisted in such a way that she thought she would vomit. Color fled from her face as tears slid down her cheeks uncontrollably.

“You had family down there,” Mallory said, knowing this to be true by Isabel’s reaction to the blast that just struck.

Isabel wiped away her tears, as if ashamed that she had been caught in such an emotional state. “They’ve been dead for a while.” That was the truth. Isabel kept telling herself that, as if it would reassure her. Everyone she loved was already dead, so they wouldn’t be killed by the blast or affected by radiation. They were safe in death.

Were they, though?

“’’’”””””””’’””

Isabel didn’t know where they were. The jet was much faster than a normal plane, which she was used to, so she wasn’t able to properly guesstimate the location of Outpost 3, and it wasn’t as if the outpost itself could give anything anyway, not when it was located completely underground.

She waited with the others near the large fire pit in the middle of the foyer. It was uncomfortably warm, but no one, not even Coco, complained. Everyone was aware that the warmth would be more than welcomed once nuclear winter hit.

The fear was palpable, but no one was able to voice their concerns. Hearts thudded against ribs. Isabel was as nervous as everyone else, but her nervousness was also competing with the intense sadness that made her shoulders sag, the nuclear explosion playing over and over again in her mind.

So lost in her thoughts, Isabel didn’t hear the motley crew being approached until a woman suddenly cleared her throat, making Isabel jump in surprise.

Before them stood a formidable looking woman. For a moment, Isabel thought there was a glitch in the matrix or something, because the woman was wearing a Victorian influenced black dress with a high collar. But no, no glitch in the matrix. The woman really was wearing a high collared black dress as if she were a recent widow pretending to mourn the husband she poisoned.

“I am Wilhelmina Venable,” the woman said, the words so sharp that they cut into Isabel like a blade. “Welcome to Outpost Three.”

There were more words, but Isabel barely heard them. She was focused on the high collar of the dress: the way it seemed to hug this woman’s neck perfectly, nearly tight enough to choke but not quite.

“You will follow me,” Wilhelmina Venable said, and for a brief moment, Isabel felt like she was speaking only to her. Then she realized that Wilhelmina Venable indeed was speaking only to her, as everyone else was being escorted away by other outpost officials.

Wordlessly, Isabel followed the severe woman, her sadness abandoning her temporarily and thus allowing her to feel how nervous she truly was.

“What should I call you?” Isabel asked, having an inkling that being on a first name basis with this woman was not going to happen.

“Ms. Venable.” The name was as piercing as her gaze, and Isabel clearly received the message that this woman was to be referred to as Ms. Venable and nothing else. She didn’t ask for Isabel’s name.

The halls seemed endless, and blindly Isabel followed her host, paying more attention to what she was passing than where she was going. Candles gave the place an eerie glow, casting ominous shadows on the walls.

This place wasn’t built to be an outpost, Isabel realized. It was too aged; there was history in the floors and secrets in the walls.

“So what did this place used to be?” Isabel asked.

“An all-boys school that was abandoned before the Cooperative took it over,” Ms. Venable replied, sounding bored by the information. She stopped suddenly in front of a door and Isabel, about to ask what the Cooperative was, nearly ran into her. “This is your room.” Ms. Venable opened the door, allowing Isabel in first.

The room was grand despite the lack of decent lighting. A fireplace sat empty, awaiting the day it would once again be useful.

As Isabel studied every nook, cranny, and imperfection, Ms. Venable walked over to the closet and opened the doors with a dramatic flair that caught Isabel’s attention. It seemed everything Wilhelmina Venable did had a touch of drama.

“You will be required to wear the appropriate attire at all times.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I look good in purple,” Isabel remarked as she walked over the closet and examined the extravagant clothing, the color theme very obvious.

Ms. Venable was not amused by the comment, whether it was meant to be humorous or not. “Being a Purple is a great honor. It’s the color of the elite.”

The elite? Why should class status matter when the world was ending beyond these walls? That wasn’t the question Isabel found herself asking though. Instead, she said, “And people who aren’t the elite?”

“Gray.”

Ms. Venable didn’t fail to notice Isabel’s gaze trail from her face down to her black outfit, lingering in a way that she might have considered inappropriate if she didn’t know exactly what Isabel was doing: observing and assessing. “You are to change, and then come to the dining hall. You will be expected to show up to mealtimes promptly. With nothing else to do, there are no excuses.”

She left, and Isabel was alone to carry the gravity of her situation. The weight of it was so heavy, she was forced to sit down on the bed.

She wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come. They would be useless anyway. With the world as she knew it gone, everything seemed useless.


	5. Chapter Four

Everyone was on edge. The fortunate few who were able to afford luxurious survival sat in the drawing room, no one saying a word. Music from the Cooperative issued radio filled the silence.

Ms. Venable observed the pathetic creatures, counting heads.

One person was missing. That was fine for now. Nothing was happening, anyway. She would wait until dinnertime to talk about the rules of the outpost she had crafted herself.

As time ticked on, the group began small talk, realizing there was nothing else to do. Still no sign of Isabel.

Dinner was ready to be served. The group sat around the dining table, the candles that were eerie before now setting an obscenely romantic mood. Right away Ms. Venable noticed the empty chair. She gestured for Ms. Mead to approach.

“The young woman who’s missing, has she left her bedchambers at all?”

“I don’t believe so, no,” Ms. Mead replied, much to Ms. Venable’s displeasure.

It was essential for everyone to act in accordance with the rules of the outpost. The rules were there to maintain order in an otherwise chaotic world. To ignore them would be anarchy, and Ms. Venable would not be having that.

She stood up from the table, and Coco said, “Where the hell is the food? I’m starving; I can feel my stomach trying to digest itself!”

This one was going to be trouble, Ms. Venable could see that. A nuisance to deal with at a later time; there were more pressing matters. “You will eat when you are served. You will be served when everyone is at their seat.” She left before Coco could utter another complaint, though no doubt there would be plenty of those in the near future.

There was no knock, or warning. If there had been, Isabel wouldn’t have noticed. Her mind was too ensnared by the tendrils of questioning and depression. Names kept flashing before her eyes; names that no longer meant anything. Tate, Addie, Constance, Dad, Nancy, Nora, Chad, Moira, Larry….

Larry.

Isabel closed her eyes, tears burning.

Her birth father had been alive. He wasn’t one of the dead in Murder House. He had been alive when the bombs hit. Now he wasn’t even a spirit; only ash, if that.

She could feel the hot tears on her cheeks, but was powerless to stop them. Death had now claimed every member of her family. Not only that, but now there was no evidence that they had ever been alive in the first place. The bombs destroyed everything.

Isabel had never been so lonely before.

The bedroom door opened without preamble, startling Isabel. She studied Ms. Venable’s figure in the threshold. “If surprising me is going to become a regular thing, could you let me know so I can start mentally preparing myself?”

Ms. Venable didn’t reply to the sarcasm. Her eyes roamed over Isabel’s body before narrowing. Isabel was still wearing the same button-up blouse and jeans she arrived in. “You aren’t dressed.”

Isabel looked down at her outfit. “Yes I am. Trust me, this would be a lot more awkward if I wasn’t dressed.”

“Enough,” Ms. Venable snapped, her voice dangerously soft. “There are rules that everyone is to follow. No exceptions. You had a ticket, and therefore have agreed to adhere to the rules.” Early acts of defiance needed to be crushed immediately. “You were asked to change.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit busy,” Isabel said, sloppily wiping away the remnants of her tears. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to continue mourning humanity.”

Ms. Venable’s grip on her cane tightened. Day one and already there were issues with submission. She could not allow that. “Dramatics will not be tolerated. This outpost is for survivors, not victims. If you are so devastated by the loss of the world you knew, you are welcome to go back out into it, but I can assure you that radiation poisoning will not be so merciful.”

No, it wouldn’t. But that didn’t make it sound unappealing. If anything, temptation grew from this suggestion. She could leave and be ravaged by nuclear aftermath. She could join her family.

“Stand up,” Ms. Venable ordered. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t even yank on Isabel’s arm to pull her up, though she desperately wanted to. Instead, she kept her composure, her voice an eerily calm, even tone.

Isabel wanted to resist. She deserved to mourn, goddammit! She didn’t fight, though. Something about Ms. Venable’s eyes and voice told her that fighting was an idea worse than leaving the outpost. So she obeyed and stood up, holding Venable’s gaze and still contemplating being difficult but not daring to act on the impulse.

“Get dressed.” Ms. Venable didn’t move after giving the order. Isabel waited expectantly, but when it became obvious that she lost her privacy privileges, she went to the closet to pick out the least garish outfit she could find.

With a mauve Edwardian tea dress laid out on the bed now, Isabel once again waited for Ms. Venable to leave.

She didn’t.

“Are you really going to watch me change?”

“If you didn’t break the rules in the first place, I wouldn’t need to supervise.” Ms. Venable didn’t bother to hide the triumphant glint in her eyes as she watched Isabel shift her stance; the girl was clearly uncomfortable.

Isabel’s throat became dry, and she tried swallowing it away. The dryness remained. Straightening her posture to feign confidence didn’t help at all. In that moment, the power dynamic was blatant to the both of them. If Ms. Venable asked Isabel to jump, Isabel better not waste time with asking how high.

She tried not to bite down on her lower lip; a habit she was trying to break. Instead, she clenched her teeth together, her jaw so tense that it took mere seconds for it to start to ache.

“I will wait as long as I need,” Ms. Venable said when Isabel made no attempt to undress.

There was no getting out of this.

Aware of the slight tremble in her hands, Isabel began to unbutton her blouse. Her cheeks burned and she had no doubt they were a fiery red.

Ms. Venable’s gaze never wavered; her eyes did not molest Isabel’s body but instead remained focused on her face. Isabel no longer looked at her, and instead focused on the floor. Ms. Venable was the victor of this battle.

When Isabel was wearing the mauve Edwardian tea dress, Ms. Venable spoke, “I see you’re capable of shame. Perhaps then you won’t be as inclined to break the celibacy rule as the others.”

Forgetting her humiliation for a fleeting moment, Isabel quirked an eyebrow. “The what rule?”

“Another regulation from the Cooperative that we enforce here. There is only so much supplies; we cannot risk a growing population.”

“Oh, so it’s like only for straight sex.”

“All forms of unauthorized copulation are strictly prohibited.”

All forms? Isabel couldn’t understand that. Why would all forms be forbidden if it was a measure to stop pregnancies? Isabel wanted to point out that it didn’t make sense. But there was one detail that struck her.

“Unauthorized?”

Ignoring her, Ms. Venable said, “As I’ve said before: you will respect the Cooperative and adhere to the rules, or you will find yourself fending for your life outside of these walls.”

Isabel inhaled deeply. She had barely been here a day, and already broke what she could see was the unspoken but most important rule: always do exactly as Ms. Venable instructed. A few hours at the outpost and she was in trouble, and she was sure that she would find herself in trouble on plenty more occasions; she had a nose for it.


	6. Chapter Five

Isabel stared at the gelatinous cube on her plate, holding back disgust whenever someone hit the table with a foot or elbow and caused the cube to jiggle. She believed that it held every vitamin and nutrient needed to survive, but Isabel knew that unless it had a sufficient amount of calories, it wasn’t going to do much in the way of giving energy.

Rules were explained as everyone inspected their pseudo-meal, but Isabel didn’t hear any of them. She was focused intently on the cube, her heart and stomach twisting from the memory of Moira’s Sunday brunches. Her stomach ached, not from hunger but from loss. In fact, she wasn’t hungry at all, and not because her dinner looked like colorless Jell-O. As some people cut up the cube into smaller bites or swallowed it in one go, Isabel didn’t touch it. She knew that if she tried eating anything, she’d throw up.

“You may be living in the lap of luxury, but you will still need your strength,” Ms. Venable said, eyeing Isabel’s untouched plate.

“Yeah, the apocalypse is so luxurious,” Isabel murmured. In a louder voice, she said, “I don’t think I can stomach anything right now,” without ever lifting her gaze from the plate.

“I’ll take it if you won’t eat it,” Coco offered. “I’m going to need to have at least five of these.” She reached over to Isabel’s plate with her fork.

“Everyone is allotted one per meal, no more,” Ms. Venable reminded Coco, pleased to see the fork stop mid-air. “We must ration our supplies so that we may all survive here as long as possible.”

“May I be excused?” Isabel asked. Without waiting for a response, she got up from the table and left. The idea of limited survival supplies made her feel claustrophobic. She needed to get away; needed to breathe.

Ms. Venable watched as Isabel left, frowning faintly. Perhaps she really would be as much of a source of trouble as the others. She was willing to let this incident go, if only for the sake of not wanting to deal with the headache.

Muffled music floated through the corridor that Isabel found herself wandering down; a faraway song that beckoned to her like a Siren to an unfortunate sailor. She followed it to the main drawing room. The Carpenters played from a radio that looked both vintage and futuristic.

“It’s been on a loop for hours,” Mallory said from by the fireplace.

She was wearing a gray dress and apron; she was incredibly plain compared to the others from the private jet. Mallory wasn’t wearing purple. Ms. Venable said that purple was for the elite. So what did that make Mallory?

“Venable calls us Grays the worker ants of the outpost,” Mallory explained, seeing Isabel stare at the dress. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I was Coco’s assistant before all of this. Might as well stick to the status quo.”

A snort of a laugh escaped Isabel before she could stop it. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I just literally can’t hear that phrase without thinking of―”

“ _High School Musical_ ,” Mallory finished, grinning. “Yeah, me neither. I’ve got a love/hate relationship with Kenny Ortega because of it.”

“He may have given us _Descendants_ , but he also gifted us with _Hocus Pocus_. So I get it.”

The two shared a laugh that was more enthusiastic than necessary. They both seemed to understand that if they didn’t laugh at this stupid something, they would cry at the depressive nothing.

“Isabel, by the way,” Isabel said as the laughs faded.

“Mallory.”

“And you worked for Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt?” Christ, her jaw got a workout from saying that.

“Still do. I’m her personal Gray.”

“What’s that like?”

“As hellish as you’d think.” Catering to Coco’s every whim then and now wasn’t ideal, but then again, none of this was ideal. “But at least it’s familiar.” There was a pause as Mallory remembered that Isabel didn’t have anyone with her. Despite being annoyed by Coco 24/7, Coco was someone. Isabel was just as alone now as she had been on the jet. “So um, how do you know Coco?” Mallory asked.

“Just from Instagram. We’ve never talked before.” Isabel never even liked Coco’s photos. To be fair, she barely ever double tapped anyone’s photos. “I’m not really a social media enthusiast.” Her job didn’t allow for it. The hours at her laptop were spent staring at blank word documents… and Tumblr (which she regretted, but had never been able to bring herself to delete her account). Instagram and Facebook were different worlds entirely.

“Yeah, I get that. Honestly, if I didn’t run Coco’s account, I probably wouldn’t be on it. It’s kind of funny, actually. People work so hard to document their lives, and make sure the world can see it. Now it doesn’t matter.” There was no world to see anything. The past was completely obliterated. Mallory frowned, unsettled by her own unpleasantness. “Sorry, things are already gloom and doom without me adding to the darkness.”

“I think sometimes we need a little darkness.”

The truth of Isabel’s words hung in the air like a fragile glass menagerie, only to be shattered by the low mumble of conversation coming from the corridor.

“Ah fuck,” Isabel muttered, not in any mood to interact with any of the other Purples.

“They’re so intolerable,” Mallory said, picking up on what Isabel was dreading. “And that was before all of this. They survived because of money. Imagine how awful they’ll be once that gets to their heads.” Mallory had to wonder if Isabel would be the same way; if at one point she would realize the power she wielded because of riches. She had a strong feeling that this wouldn’t be the case. Isabel didn’t radiate humbleness, but she seemed to be aware of where she stood in the world.

Isabel supposed she would have to meet everyone at some point. The outpost was only so big; she couldn’t avoid them forever.

“It was nice meeting you,” Mallory said quickly to Isabel, leaving the room before the others appeared. She had responsibilities as a Gray; she couldn’t be caught socializing unless it was with Coco.

And so, Isabel was left alone to meet the gang.

She moved to stand beside the fire, deciding not to sit down in case she needed to make a quick escape. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her that Mallory was right: these people were intolerable. She braced herself as the voices got louder.

“I see you haven’t run off to your room. I suppose you’ve finally decided you weren’t too good for us,” Evie said as she swept into the room. She claimed a spot on one of the sofas. “Oh what I wouldn’t give for a glass of champagne.”

“An end-of-the-world bunker with no booze. Clearly someone didn’t think this through,” André bemoaned, fingers laced with Stew’s, only to have his mother say, “Better to keep our wits about us,” much to his annoyance.

There was so many of them, Isabel realized. Was a doomsday bunker really meant to sustain life for all of them? There was all of the Grays to consider as well. She began feeling claustrophobic again.

“Though I can’t say I’d mind being able to imbibe,” Dinah continued, approaching Isabel. “You look hardly old enough to even know what that means.”

“I’m twenty-three.” Isabel wanted to be defensive, but found saying her age out loud made her feel more childish.

“I’m sorry,” Dinah said. She wasn’t apologizing for offending Isabel. No, she was sorry that such a young woman was in this situation alone. “Dinah Stevens.” She offered her hand out to Isabel.

“Yeah, I know. Well known talk show host.” Not that Isabel ever watched her. She shook Dinah’s offered hand. “Isabel Noble.”

Dinah raised her eyebrows. She supposed Noble wasn’t too uncommon of a last name, but the thought that crossed her mind was the same thought many people had. “May I ask where your family is?” If this was who she thought it was, then Dinah already knew the answer. It would make sense. No way could this girl afford the Outpost 3 ticket on her own. And everyone else managed to bring loved ones.

Isabel hesitated. She wasn’t immune to the effects of death, but it never bothered her much before the apocalypse because no one was truly gone, except for Derek. Now, she really would never see any of her family again.

“Dead,” Isabel finally managed.

A hush fell over the room. Yes, the world was gone, but Isabel was the only one who lost everything. It was as if it never occurred to the others that losing absolutely everything was a possibility. Even now, they all had something; someone.

“Your father was the author, Derek Noble, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Isabel answered Dinah.

“I’m sorry,” Dinah repeated, this time more solemnly.

“It’s fine. Sometimes dead is better.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the continued support on this story! I've been trying to have weekly updates, but I have midterms coming up and a thesis proposal to work on and that takes priority. I'll update when I can!


	7. Chapter Six

Evie, Gallant, Coco, Dinah, André, Stu. Evie was Gallant’s grandmother, Coco was Gallant’s client. André was Dinah’s son and Stu was his boyfriend. Isabel repeated this information in her head as she sat, curled up on a chair with a book in her lap. She adjusted her dress every so often to keep herself covered but also comfortable.

Discovering the library after abandoning everyone in the common room gave Isabel the feeling the relief that surviving the apocalypse hadn’t provided. As long as there was literature, the world wasn’t completely doomed.

The words weren’t sticking, but that didn’t matter. Simply having the weight of the book in her hands and the feeling of the pages between her fingers were enough. While it did make her yearn for home, it helped with the loneliness.

“Being antisocial is the key to madness in this place,” Ms. Venable said as she stood in the library threshold.

For the first time that day, Isabel wasn’t startled by Venable suddenly appearing. It was as if the book acted as a shield. “I’m socializing with the book,” Isabel said as she marked the unread page and looked to Ms. Venable. “I literally can’t stand the others,” she admitted. “Met them, don’t like them; I’d rather go insane than socialize.”

Ms. Venable supposed she couldn’t argue with that. She also had no sympathy for the Purples. They were all vain and vapid; absolutely insufferable twits. “And what makes you better than them?” she asked Isabel, challenging her.

There was a pause. Isabel could smell that bait; Ms. Venable was trying to find a reason to tear into her. “I never said I was.” Then she smirked, straightening up in the chair. “But there must be something different about me?”

Ms. Venable frowned at Isabel’s cocky nature. She didn’t like this confident energy. “And what makes you say that?”

“Because you’re talking to me.” Isabel stood up from the chair and walked towards Ms. Venable. Perhaps it was being surrounded by books, or coming to the understanding that her fate was sealed and she couldn’t fix the apocalypse and was now stuck with this life; no matter the reason, she wasn’t so afraid of this woman anymore. Ms. Venable didn’t scare her.

No, she did know exactly why she didn’t feel intimidated by Ms. Venable.

“You remind me of someone,” Isabel said quietly, vocalizing her realization as it hit her. “A woman who thought she was in charge everywhere.”

Ms. Venable tilted her head to the side as she studied Isabel, not liking her proximity. She raised her cane, placing the end of it under Isabel’s chin. “I _am_ in charge everywhere.”

Isabel’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t dare move, even after Ms. Venable lowered her cane. Her heart was pulsing so fast that it wasn’t even beating but vibrating.

The intimidation was back, which pleased Ms. Venable. “Remember your place.”

When Isabel was completely alone, she finally relaxed her shoulders. Her heart still fluttered, but her muscles were no longer so incredibly tense. She bit down on her lower lip as she breathed deeply through her nose.

She returned to the chair and picked up the book. Trying to read was even more difficult than before. She also couldn’t get comfortable in the chair. Isabel was fidgety; bothered. Ms. Venable had gotten under her skin.

Hours ticked by, and the feeling didn’t go away. It was late at night, Isabel could feel it without even looking at the clock on her bureau. Despite the bed being surprisingly comfortable and her cotton nightgown soft, sleep wouldn’t come.

The floor was cool against her bare feet. Isabel left her room and wandered down the corridor to try and shake off this excess energy. She considered spending time in the library again, but she was too restless to sit and read.

Outpost 3 was silent. The Purples had gone to bed long ago. There wasn’t a Gray in sight. It was as if she was the only one person in the entire place. That fantasy vanished when she passed by a door and heard muffled talking between two people. How could that be? Everyone had separate bedrooms.

Isabel leaned in close to the door, trying to decipher what was being said. Suddenly, the talking stopped. Isabel barely had time to frown when the door swung open and she almost fell forward into Ms. Venable.

“Fuck, um… sorry,” Isabel said quickly, her cheeks obviously red even in the dim lighting of the hall.

“What did you hear?” Ms. Venable demanded.

“N-nothing.”

The word was barely out of her mouth when Ms. Venable’s hand shot out, gripping her chin. Isabel winced as Ms. Venable’s fingernails dug into her skin. “I do not tolerate eavesdropping.”

“I wasn’t!”

Ms. Venable’s grip tightened. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Isabel insisted. “I-I was just…” She couldn’t find the words. Her brain was malfunctioning. Anything remotely coherent was getting jumbled before it could leave her mouth.

Fear overruled, and Ms. Venable could see that. She loosened her grip on Isabel’s chin. Her fingertips traced the girl’s jawline as she studied her, seeing that fear and also truth in wide, cairngorm colored eyes. “I had hoped you wouldn’t be a troublemaker.”

Still unable to form words, Isabel just shook her head. She had the power to stop this. Isabel didn’t practice her magic, but she knew what she was capable of. Concillium was not out of reach for her. She could force Venable to stop if she wanted. She could make Venable lower her hand and step away from her. Isabel didn’t do a thing.

“Troublemakers get punished, Miss Noble.”

Isabel’s name had never sounded so exquisite.

“I never told you my last name,” Isabel realized out loud, her voice hushed as if speaking above a whisper would break this moment that she never wanted to end.

“I have ears everywhere. Nothing gets past me, and you will do well to remember that.”

Ms. Venable released Isabel and stepped back into her room, slamming the door shut and making Isabel jump. Her heart was racing, not unpleasantly.

What the fuck was wrong with her? The world ended less than 24 hours ago and she was thinking about… no, she needed to stop. This was wrong. Where was her respect? She ought to be disgusted with herself. She was mourning the loss of her family only hours before and now it was like she completely forgot about them.

Books, yes that was a good idea. Shaking her head to clear her mind like an etch-a-sketch, Isabel continued down the hall to go to the library. She didn’t know how much she’d be able to read; there was no way she could focus enough with her chest feeling all funny. She needed to at least attempt to get Ms. Venable out of her head.


	8. Chapter Seven

Isabel was in a living room, and though she wore the white cotton nightgown she fell asleep in, she wasn’t in Outpost 3. She knew this place. It was her house back in Los Angeles; the Murder House. But it was empty. There was no furniture. A fire crackled in the fireplace, but the couch and the chairs were nowhere in sight.

She wandered into the study. Bookshelves still lined the walls, but there wasn’t a single book. Isabel’s footsteps echoed throughout the bare rooms as she explored each one, looking for something, though she didn’t know what. She found nothing.

The Murder House was completely empty. Not even ghosts.

Despite this, Isabel looked for them anyway. “Moira?” she called out. There was something wrong with her voice. Though the house was empty, and her footsteps resonated, her voice stopped short, never going beyond a foot in front of her as if there was an insulated dome over her head that absorbed sound before it got too far.

A sharp cry came from one of the bedrooms upstairs. Isabel looked up to the ceiling. It sounded like a baby crying for its mother; it sounded in pain. Something told Isabel not to investigate; that she wouldn’t want to know what was up there. But her curiosity got the best of her.

Isabel walked upstairs, the usually creaky steps not making a sound. The silence made the cries all the more piercing and unbearable. As Isabel drew nearer, the cries became clearer. It no longer sounded like just a baby. There was something else… something more sinister.

The crying was coming from behind the door that led to her bedroom. Isabel hesitated. It didn’t feel like her room. It felt like her brother’s. It was Tate’s before she and her father moved in, and in this moment it was his again.

A hush fell over the house when she turned the handle. The crying ceased. She pushed open the door to reveal a bedroom as empty as the rest of the house, the walls a discouraging shade of gray-green that Tate had chosen when he had been alive.

Isabel walked over to the window. The curtains were drawn, but sunlight peeked through. She threw open the curtains, desperate for actual sun. The sunlight disappeared; there was nothing but a brick wall on the other side of the pane.

Another piercing wail.

Isabel whirled around to see that there was now a crib in the center of the room. She could see a vague shape wiggling around in the crib; the source of the crying.

Her skin prickled. She didn’t want to look, but knew that she needed to. It was important for her to see.

She stepped up to the crib. A baby’s face was red as it continued to scream, its little hands balled into fists. Isabel lost interest in the face when she saw the kicking legs: thick, hairy things with hooves instead of feet.

Her brow furrowed. Was she supposed to be horrified? She was shocked, but the fear wasn’t there.

Isabel reached down and picked up the baby. It immediately calmed down. The face relaxed; the hooves stopped kicking. The baby (a boy, it was a boy) had the most beautiful eyes Isabel had ever seen. There was something hypnotizing about them. Isabel smiled softly, partially in amusement as this was so absurd, and partially in satisfaction. Whoever this baby was, she was meant to be with him.

She brought him over to the window, which transformed into a bookshelf mounted on the wall when her back had been turned. Isabel didn’t question it; dreams were odd like that.

“What shall we read?” Isabel whispered to the babe. She looked down though, it was gone. Her arms were empty, and they fell back to her side as she turned around once again to face the crib. That had vanished as well, and in its place stood an ominous figure clad in black latex.

Perhaps she would have been terrified if she wasn’t familiar with this Rubber Man. But she knew him; her savior. He was the one who pulled her out of the way of a car when she (at the time) thought she was drunk and stumbled into the road (and later learned she had actually been pushed into the road).

Isabel never saw his face before, just that all-consuming shining black. But there was a stirring in her gut. She never saw his face, but in this moment, Isabel knew exactly who he was.

“Tate?”

She jolted in the chair she had fallen asleep in. Mallory jumped back, drawing her hand away from Isabel’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Mallory said quickly as Isabel looked around, remembering where she was.

“No, no it’s all good,” Isabel assured Mallory, wiping away the trail of dried spit that traveled from the corner of her mouth to her chin. It seemed she fell asleep in the library.

“You missed breakfast… Venable’s pissed.”

“I think I’ll live.” Isabel sat up in the chair, massaging her left shoulder blade. The chair was comfortable to read in. Not to sleep in.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You can’t keep skipping meals. Here.” Mallory reached into her pocket of her gray apron, revealing a gelatin cube. “I managed to sneak this for you.”

Isabel stared at the meal cube in Mallory’s hand. She should eat it, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Her mind was too much of a mess, especially after that dream. She couldn’t get herself to focus on her stomach. “I’m not hungry.”

Mallory didn’t argue, but she didn’t look pleased. “Survivors guilt won’t keep you fed forever.”

Isabel couldn’t help but smile at that. “You sound like Moira,” she mused.

“Who’s Moira?”

There was a pang of fondness and melancholy in Isabel’s heart as she remembered her dearest friend; the woman who was more of a confidant than her own mother. “Someone I loved,” Isabel answered honestly.

Mallory let the gravity of those words sink into her skin. “At least go and be social. I heard Venable talking to that right hand woman of hers. She’s not pleased that you’re not like the others.

“Weird, I’d have thought that she’d be relieved.”

“For what it’s worth, I am.”

The two shared a smile, Mallory’s warm and Isabel’s appreciative. In Mallory’s smile, Isabel saw something strange: goodness. Pure and utter goodness. It seemed that despite the horrendous circumstances, Mallory still had a glimmer of faith. Isabel didn’t understand it. She lost hope in just about everything.

Mallory held out her hand and helped Isabel up from the chair. “Everyone’s in the main drawing room. You should probably make an appearance.”

“That sounds awful,” Isabel groaned as she stood.

“Yeah, and it probably will be. But from what I’ve seen, it’s better not to be an outsider.”

Isabel knew Mallory was right. Ostracizing herself wouldn’t do her any good. “I guess Kenny Ortega was right: we’re all in this together.”

Even after the apocalypse, Kenny Ortega still haunted their generation. But who was haunting Isabel’s dream? The Rubber Man was Tate, Isabel felt it in her gut. What about the baby, or whatever that thing had been?

Isabel knew about religious imagery. The dream wasn’t exactly subtle. A baby born half human and half goat was the sign of the Devil. But what did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? There was a very good chance that she just had a weird dream that meant nothing. That seemed more likely than any symbolism she could come up with.

“Earth to Izzy,” Coco said as she snapped her fingers in front of Isabel’s face.

Isabel tuned in to find that she was no longer in the library but instead sitting on a couch in the drawing room. She panicked for a moment. Had she used transmutation? No, she wasn’t good enough at that, and no one was freaking out so she must not have displayed magic. Right, she walked from the library to the main room but had been too lost in thought.

She toyed with her nightgown, keeping her hands busy.

The Carpenters still played endlessly.

“You have to let me do your hair,” Gallant said, running his fingers though Isabel’s long locks. “There’s so much of it!”

“What were you thinking about, anyway?” Stu asked. He was sat across from Isabel, and leaned forward in interest.

Isabel couldn’t tell them. Even though it was just a dream, Isabel felt like it was a secret she was meant to keep. “Just how annoying this song is,” she answered as she heard the click of Venable’s cane against the floor, indicating her arrival to the drawing room. A hush fell over the crowd.

“I was unaware that the end of the world called for a sleepover,” Ms. Venable said in her usual unamused manner, her gaze focused intently on Isabel. Well, more of the nightgown she never changed out of.

Isabel tried brushing off Venable’s cold gaze, knowing she was in trouble. “Sleepover might be fun. A pajama party to ease the tension.”

Before Ms. Venable could argue, the group murmured in agreement.

“Oh my god, that would be so much fun!” Gallant declared as Coco squealed in agreement. “Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever; yes, oh my god I’m in!”

“It might be just the thing we need to boost morale,” Dinah agreed, though Evie scoffed at the idea of entertaining something so childish.

Ms. Venable’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowing on Isabel, the instigator. She lifted her cane, and then slammed it back down on the floor. The sound resonated throughout the entire outpost, like the crack of a gunshot.

“Enough,” Ms. Venable seethed. “Enough with this nonsense.” Her glare made the group look down in shame and fear. “Miss Noble, my quarters _now_.”


	9. Chapter Eight

Isabel wished she were a robot, so that she had nerves of steel. Instead, she was human and had nerves of… whatever nerves were made of. With nerves of steel, she wouldn’t feel like she was going to vomit from stress.

She radiated nervous energy, and Ms. Venable was thriving from seeing her in such a state. She didn’t say anything for the longest time, as if she were feeding off of Isabel’s nervousness and didn’t wish to disturb her meal. Finally, Ms. Venable cocked her head to the side. “I had assumed you wouldn’t be trouble. Are you so intent on proving me wrong?”

“I didn’t think there would be anything wrong with wearing my PJs,” Isabel said, trying to act casual. She felt like a high schooler called into the principal’s office for a dress code violation: skirt too short, bra straps visible, neckline too low; your ankles are distracting the boys from learning!

Sure enough: “We have a strict dress code. I made that very clear,” Ms. Venable said.

“If it’s so offensive, maybe don’t make it part of the wardrobe.” Was her voice shaking? Isabel felt like her voice was shaking.

“You are determined to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I just want you to pay attention to me.”

Isabel’s words made both of them freeze. Ms. Venable was in disbelief that she had heard them. Isabel was in disbelief that she had said them. Was she truly so bold? Where was all of this coming from? The end of the world seemed to affect her more than she realized.

Ms. Venable was having none of it.

“Go to your room, and change your goddamn clothes,” she snapped.

There was not venom in her voice. No, there was something much more powerful. If Venable could have written her words on a brick and thrown it at Isabel’s face, Isabel had no doubt she would do just that. But the punch of the words alone was agonizing, sans brick.

Isabel bit her lower lip, and then immediately stopped. She needed to quit that clichéd habit. She watched Ms. Venable part her lips to speak again, and Isabel left before anything else could be said. She kept her eyes down on the ground as she navigated her way to her room.

What was wrong with her?

That was a stupid question. Isabel knew exactly what was wrong with her. History was repeating itself; she was making the same mistake she made with Fiona: falling for someone vaguely attractive who offered protection.

Okay, more than vaguely attractive.

That didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She would not let herself fall back into this trap. Venable didn’t have anything to offer except fear and strict policy. Isabel was the powerful one, she needed to remember that. She was a witch.

A witch without a coven.

“Fuck,” Isabel groaned as she flopped down on her bed.

She hadn’t even thought about her coven. Cordelia, Myrtle, the girls… were any of them at the other outposts? Were any of them still alive? Her heart ached.

No, she couldn’t think about them. And she couldn’t think about Ms. Venable either. She just wouldn’t allow herself to think at all. She would keep her head low, not think; she would blend right in with everyone. Just a mindless slave to her wealth, hardly concerned with the fact that the world beyond the outpost was gone.

Keeping her head down did the trick. Only a day passed and Isabel noticed that she wasn’t picked on by Ms. Venable. Her sadness still consumed her, but paying it no mind got somewhat easier over time.

Two weeks went by without any trouble.

Then came the breach.

Everyone was seated at the dining table, but it wasn’t mealtime yet. Ms. Venable called for a meeting, and now stood at the head of the table. All of the Purples seemed unfazed by this change in routine, though it was a welcomed change of pace.

There was pleasant chatter between everyone except for Isabel. Something was off, she could tell. Nothing good would come out of this.

“It seems that we have had a breach in our facility,” Ms. Venable announced, hushing the chatter. “One of you decided that you were above the rules, and went outside.” Though she addressed everyone, her gaze was trained on Isabel, whose stomach dropped and heart seized.

There was a murmur amongst the Purples. Who could have done it?

“Well I know that blondes aren’t terribly bright, but I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to put us all at risk for radiation poisoning,” Evie said to Coco, eyes narrowed.

“Me? Go outside and risk ruining this complexion?” Coco retorted, gesturing to said complexion. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

The murmuring grew louder as accusations were thrown out in hopes that something would stick.

“I bet it’s her,” Stu said, pointing a finger across the table to Isabel. “She’s so quiet all the time; probably didn’t want to risk telling anyone she broke the rules.”

“You guys literally see me all the time. When the fuck would I have had the chance?” Isabel shot back. The accusation made her nervous, though. She absolutely did not like the way Ms. Venable was looking at her.

“You’re always sneaking off to the library. How do we know you aren’t actually going outside?” Stu folded his arms across his chest, triumph gleaming in his eyes as André put an arm around his shoulders.

“Because I’m not a dumbass!” While that was debatable at times, Isabel knew it to be true in this case. She would never! If she was going to go outside, it would be to succumb to radiation poisoning and then death. She wouldn’t have come back inside.

Ms. Venable sliced through the commotion. “We will see who among us is guilty. Ms. Meade, if you would.”

Ms. Meade came forward with a Geiger counter, and Isabel’s stomach plummeted another thirty feet. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t go outside and therefore had nothing to worry about. But something in Ms. Venable’s gaze told her that she ought to worry very, very much.

The crackling of the Geiger counter sent chills down Isabel’s arms. She couldn’t convince herself that machines couldn’t lie, because this one could. She couldn’t convince herself that there was no way to rig the counter to accuse her, because surely it had been and was going to. She didn’t know how, but it could and Venable or even Ms. Meade somehow managed to do it.

She braced herself as Ms. Meade started making her way around the table, eyeing everyone as if she could smell the radiation. The wand of the counter hovered over innocent bodies, and as it came closer and closer, Isabel’s heart went from being completely still to beating faster than the wings of a hummingbird. Would throwing up from nervousness make her seem guilty?

The wand was right over her shoulder, the crackling starting to become erratic. Then it calmed down.

Ms. Venable’s expression, which teetered between passive and eager, became blatantly disappointed. That wasn’t meant to happen. She thought she made the plan very clear to Ms. Meade: make sure the sensitivity on the Geiger counter was on the highest setting when she reached Miss Noble. And for a moment, it seemed that the plan was going smoothly. But then the machine crackled normally, not giving off any readings for radiation.

Ms. Meade dared to share a glance with Ms. Venable, and then continued around the table.

Neither of them noticed that Isabel was concentrating intently. Her heart still fluttered, but no longer from nervousness. The magic within her unfurled and stretched like a cat waking up from a lengthy nap. Her fingertips tingled as she tapped into a power she hadn’t accessed since she fought for her life in the Hotel Cortez, when she had made her first kills….

Isabel looked to the Geiger counter, watching Ms. Meade wave the wand over everyone like a perverted fairy godmother. When Ms. Meade reached Gallant, the crackling increased; the sensitivity was still set on high. There were shouts of protests as Gallant was dragged away by two of Ms. Venable’s minions, but Isabel didn’t hear them as she moved her focus to Stu.

Ms. Meade waved the wand over Stu. As she did, Isabel held Stu’s gaze and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

The Geiger counter freaked out.

“What the fuck!” Stu shouted, pulling away from the machine. “I didn’t go outside! I swear I didn’t! What the actual fuck?” His claims were ignored as two minions grabbed each arm. “This is bullshit! I didn’t go outside! It’s her! She did this! That fucking cunt did this!”

Stu was yanked away with Gallant, their screams echoing throughout Outpost 3.

Ms. Venable watched until they were both out of sight. When the screams faded and silence settled, she looked back to Isabel, trying to figure the girl out. She didn’t know why her plan went wrong, but it did. Blood and tears would be shed regardless, just not the blood and tears she wanted.

“Dismissed,” Ms. Venable muttered, walking away from the table.

 


	10. Chapter Nine

 

Exhaustion was not the right word, but it was the only word that came close to how Isabel felt; physically and emotionally exhausted, but tenfold.

  
She was laying on her bed, knees drawn to her chest and only in her chemise, having shed her uncomfortable dress. She longed for a sweater from home, over sized and cozy. It was more than that, though. She longed for the smell of home. The smell of secrets, coffee, and diluted white vinegar Moira used to clean the floorboards.

  
A nap would do her some good. A nap that would last for one hundred years. Would that be enough? If she slept for one hundred years, would the world have moved on and forgiven her crimes?

  
The silence that occupied the outpost was mournful. Gallant had returned from the intense scrubbing session that had left him raw and nearly skinless.  
Stu had not.

  
Isabel didn’t mean for Stu to get killed. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been her. She tried to keep telling herself that. Though a hierarchy had been established in Outpost 3, the lack of structure in the outside world seeped in through the walls and permeated life within: kill or be killed. She had been in a situation like that before. Kill or be killed; she saved her own life.

It didn’t make her feel any better.

  
The sharp click of a cane on the floor alerted Isabel to Venable’s presence outside of her room. Refusing to be caught off guard this time, Isabel sat up just as the door opened.  
“Moping, I see,” Ms. Venable remarked, shutting the door behind her.

  
Isabel watched the door in dismay. She was trapped. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so averse to being in a room alone with Ms. Venable if it wasn’t for recent deadly events. And the look in Ms. Venable’s eyes made her uneasy. “Mourning,” she corrected, hating how her voice caught in her throat.

  
“I don’t see why you should be mourning. He died, you lived. Surely you ought to be celebrating?” Ms. Venable could see Isabel’s face pale in panic; a child caught lying to a parent. “I won’t waste time beating around the bush. You did something to the Geiger counter. I can’t quite figure out how, but you did.”

  
There was a pause as Isabel contemplated her options. There weren’t many. She couldn’t exactly come out and tell the truth, could she? “You can’t prove anything.”

  
She scolded herself when she saw Ms. Venable’s satisfied grin. “No need. You just did it for me.” And with genuine curiosity, “How did you do it?”

  
“I didn’t do anything.” It was too late to use this excuse, Isabel knew that. But it fell out of her mouth and flopped on the floor anyway.

She braced herself for the slap, but that didn’t make it any less painful. Her cheek smarted, and was then suddenly soothed as the hand that hurt her now caressed, Ms. Venable’s palm cool and comforting.

  
“It’s wonderful, having things go your way, isn’t it? To be in control. I know the feeling well. I’m not embarrassed to say it gives me a tingle.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words deliberately. “You have power,” Ms. Venable murmured as she cupped Isabel’s chin. There was no question about it. Whatever that power was, it was strong. Ms. Venable wouldn’t believe in such impossibilities if it wasn’t for her employers before the apocalypse: Jeff and Mutt, two idiots who snorted their body weight in cocaine daily. She had witnessed rather impossible things.

“You don’t know what I have.”

  
“So tell me.”

  
“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.” Isabel knew she ought to pull away. But she was frozen, as if under a spell. Was it possible that Ms. Venable was using Concilium? No, no this didn’t feel like that type of magic. A different kind of spell; a non-magical one. Perhaps that made Ms. Venable all the more dangerous.

  
Ms. Venable smirked, but it was more endearing than condescending. “And what’s the worst that can happen if you tell me? I don’t believe you, and we move on.”

  
“Or you punish me for making up lies.”

  
“Are you lying?”

  
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll punish me anyway.”

  
“Only if you deserve it.”

  
Isabel ought to be sick; disgusted with herself. This was all just to manipulate her, she knew that. She needed to stop letting Ms. Venable cloud her mind. She had more power. She should be the one in charge, really. Who was Ms. Venable? An intimidating woman who relished in others’ misery.

  
And yet the way Ms. Venable had so deliberately said the word “tingle” before and even stole a glance at how the chemise fit so nicely, Isabel couldn’t help but feel a strange fluttering within her. Isabel had magic, but Ms. Venable had words and authority.

  
Who truly had more power? Isabel didn’t know, and not knowing scared her.

  
She could prove her power. She wouldn’t have to do anything big. Hell, opening the door with telekinesis would be enough. Isabel wasn’t well versed in telekinesis, but surely it wouldn’t be all that difficult? She managed the more difficult Wonders out of the seven; Descensum was her specialty.

  
Did she want to prove herself? Isabel had to wonder… Her mother would want to her to do that. She wanted to laugh at the thought of Constance, but thought better of it.

  
Isabel stepped away from Ms. Venable. It wasn’t a display of magic, but in that moment she was the powerful one.

  
“Maybe I’ll tell you. But I decide when you get to know,” Isabel said with finality.

Isabel walked out of her room, still only in her chemise, leaving Ms. Venable intrigued and at a loss.

How was Ms. Venable supposed to handle not getting her way? It wasn’t something she was used to. Of course, she could fix it with a command. If she wanted, she could have Ms. Meade drag Isabel to the lowest level of the outpost, chain her up, and whip her until she bled and begged for mercy; until she confessed to whatever power she apparently had.

But there was fun in the mystery. Wilhelmina wasn’t normally the one being teased and taunted. It wasn’t a position she would take up full time. But let the young woman think she had the upper hand. Let her get comfortable. No one knew how long they would be in the outpost for; it would be nice to have some entertainment to fill the long days that bled into even longer nights. A little back-and-forth wouldn’t hurt, as long as Wilhelmina got her way in the end, which she would.

Even Isabel was aware of that as she sat in the chair by the fireplace, trying to warm up from the chill that settled into her soul. She knew what game Ms. Venable was playing. Isabel had played it before. This wasn’t new territory for her. It was just a matter of figuring out her strategy. The last time she went through this with Fiona Goode, she had been nothing more than a pawn. Now she was hoping to graduate to at least bishop or rook.

“Well at least someone is mourning,” Mallory said as she found Isabel in the chair by the fireplace. Isabel was confused at first, and then realized that Mallory had mistaken her grim contemplation for mourning Stu’s death. Mallory continued, “Everyone else’s has moved on already.”

“I guess there’s not much anyone can do. Too much sadness will infect the place.”

“The guy deserves at least twenty-four hours.” Mallory didn’t understand how everyone else could be so wrapped up in themselves that they easily moved on from the fact that someone was killed. Radiation poisoning or not, it was sick. “André is the only one still upset by it. And you.”

Isabel gave a halfhearted smile. “Maybe I’m just too sensitive for my own good.”

“Maybe.” There was a pause as the two let the words dissipate, and then Mallory asked, “What are you reading now?” assuming that was why Isabel was in the study seeing as reading was all she did there.

Isabel looked down at her empty hands and lap. “Nothing at the moment. Just came in here to warm up.” Her eyes shifted to the top shelf of one of the bookcases that lined the walls. “Maybe I’ll grab something though. Something from the top.”

“The top?” Mallory followed Isabel’s gaze to the top shelf. “They look super old.” Much older than the other books on the lower shelves.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a first edition Charles Dickens.”

“Well, good luck with that. They’re, like, impossible to reach and there isn’t a ladder anywhere.” As Mallory said these words, she could see the gears turning in Isabel’s head, and that the lack of a ladder meant nothing. “You’ll find a way though, won’t you?”

Isabel shrugged. “It’ll give me something to do.”

“Have fun, I guess,” Mallory said with a chuckle, turning to leave. “Oh, dinner will be a little later than usual. Don’t know why, just what Venable said.”

“Okay, thanks.” Isabel gave another smile, a little more sincere than the one before.

Once Mallory was gone, Isabel looked back to the top shelf and held out her hand. A book slid out of its designated spot and floated down.

 


	11. Chapter Ten

The fire began to cool down as Isabel settled in the chair with the new book. Still in her chemise, she began to grow a little chilly. She looked to the flames and tried encouraging them to grow, but they wouldn’t listen to her. Pyrokinesis was something she never quite mastered. Well, she had all the time in the world to practice now.

Curling up, Isabel opened the book. She turned the pages very gently, feeling like they would disintegrate between her fingers if she just breathed wrong. Everything about the book was so delicate, from the pages that were worn away to no more than butterfly wings, to the faded ink creating looping handwritten words. This book was well loved.

Isabel frowned as she attempted to read the words. Whoever wrote this was an awful speller; she couldn’t understand it at all. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the first page that she realized it wasn’t poor penmanship, but that the book was written in Latin and that was why she couldn’t understand it.

Latin was very popular for spells. In fact, all of the spells Isabel had learned were in Latin. But it was a language she never quite picked up. She couldn’t translate any of the words and had no idea what was written in this book. For all she knew, this could be a book of terrible puns and she would be none the wiser. When she turned the page though, she knew for sure that it wasn’t a book of terrible puns.

On the next page, a sigil stared back at her. She didn’t recognize that exact sigil, but she recognized some of the symbols used. It was witchcraft.

Isabel briefly thought back to her dream, the one where she had come upon a crying babe with the legs of a goat. She didn’t know why the sigil reminded her of the dream. Perhaps because it gave her the same feeling: the vague sense of knowing without truly being aware of what was going on.

She closed the book, allowing herself a moment to collect herself. She opened the book again to make sure that she didn’t just imagine it.

Nope, it was still there. She honestly didn’t know whether she ought to be relieved to see something familiar, or horrified. She knew that Outpost 3 was weird, but what kind of fucking place was this where there were books with sigils? Her finger traced the design, wondering what it meant.

She turned the page, and didn’t recognize anything. Just more senseless Latin; spells she couldn’t cast because she didn’t know what they did. Though she supposed she couldn’t do anything worse than the apocalypse.

A few more page flips and still nothing she knew. Perhaps the sigil wasn’t real. Perhaps none of this was magic, and she only thought the sigil was magical because it was such a stereotype. And then she came upon a familiar word: Descensum.

Isabel slammed the book shut. There was no doubt about it: this was a book about witchcraft.

Tucking the book under her arm, Isabel stood up and left the library as quickly as she could manage, careful to avoid any Grays roaming and carrying out tasks.

She made it back to her room without having to explain herself. Isabel practically threw herself on her bed and opened the book back up to the page that caused this little freak out.

Sure enough, it was the spell to perform Descensum. She knew it well; there was literally no way for her to deny it.

What was this book doing in the outpost? As far as Isabel had observed, no one here was like her; no one else was a witch.

But what about before the apocalypse? Before this place was converted to Outpost 3? Ms. Venable said this used to be a school. It seemed there was more to that story.

A knock at the door startled Isabel. “Fuck!” she exclaimed involuntarily, slamming the book shut and shoving it under her pillow. Not trusting her legs to be anything but wobbly, Isabel stayed on the bed and called out, “Come in!”

The door opened, and much to her relief it was Mallory, not Ms. Venable. “Dinner’s finally ready,” Mallory told Isabel, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah fine,” Isabel said quickly. “I was just… Yeah, I’m all good. Thanks.”

Isabel stood from her bed with every intention to leave with Mallory, but Mallory didn’t move from the threshold. “You should probably put on like, actual clothes,” Mallory said, staring at the chemise that Isabel still wore. “Venable will kill you otherwise.”

“Yeah, well, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” Isabel muttered, changing direction and heading to her closet to grab a more appropriate dinner dress. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

Mallory left her to get dressed.

In a hurry, Isabel threw on a dress, choosing a more intricate one than the tea dresses she normally grabbed before briskly walking towards the dining room so as not to be tardy.

“Wait, your laces!” Mallory hissed as Isabel was about to pass through the dining room threshold. Isabel halted, allowing Mallory to properly do up the laces in the back of the dress, making Isabel wish she had chosen a simpler dinner gown. “Alright, good to go.” Mallory stepped away from Isabel once the laces were tight and there was no risk of them coming undone. Who could say what would happen if Ms. Venable caught someone’s dress coming undone?

Everyone was already in their places by the time Isabel got to the table, Ms. Venable standing by her chair. “Sorry, sorry,” Isabel muttered halfheartedly, sliding into her chair.

Mallory was right about how everyone was taking Stu’s murder. André stared miserably at the table, but other than that it seemed as if no one had been killed. Did no one else realize that this was the same table Stu was dragged away from before he was shot? Just sitting at it made Isabel feel ill.

She tapped her foot nervously, daring to glance at Ms. Venable and catching a glimpse of an approving and intrigued smile. Isabel made a point to keep her eyes trained on the table.

“I know this is a difficult time for all of us,” Ms. Venable said, peering down at the Purples. It was a lie. No one was facing any difficulty, not even the grieving boyfriend. These vultures were probably thankful to have one less mouth to feed, not that they even realized food supply was limited. The only “limited” they knew was “limited edition.” “So to help ease the pain, a special treat has been prepared.”

On cue, Ms. Meade came forth with a trolley. Aboard the trolley was a large pot with steam slithering out from the top. The smell of cooked meat made Isabel’s mouth water. Before, she was able to push off her hunger and fed herself with survivor’s guilt. It was easy when the only other option was a flavorless cube of boiled then solidified animal cartilage. Now presented with real food, it was much harder to deny herself.

Ms. Venable could feel the excitement radiating off of the group as real food was put before them. “Enjoy the bonne bouche,” she said.

Everyone was eager to dig in when a bowl was placed in front of them. Isabel was too, but she stopped herself as an eerie feeling settled on the back of her neck. Spoons scraped against bowls, but Isabel didn’t touch hers. The stew smelled delicious, and the meat looked tender. But that was the thing: the meat. Was no one going to question how the fuck there was suddenly meat?

Isabel allowed herself to look at Ms. Venable, who was now seated at the head of the table. Ms. Venable smiled, and it was almost sweet. This made Isabel even more wary.

Coco moaned in ecstasy, as if the food was better than sex. It probably was. After no real food for two weeks, anything edible that wasn’t gelatin was better than sex.

Still, Isabel did not allow herself to feast. It was as if someone was whispering in her ear, warning her to keep her hands in her lap.

“You really ought to eat something,” Ms. Venable remarked as she dipped her own spoon into the hearty stew. “Wasting away is a slow, uncomfortable process.”

“I’m not hungry.”

As soon as Isabel spoke, there was a crunch as André bit down on something unexpectedly hard. He eased it out of his mouth and held it up: something small and white. His eyes widened in horror. “Please tell me this isn’t a finger bone.” He looked down at his bowl, suddenly feeling incredibly sick to his stomach. Leaping up from his chair, he exclaimed, “Oh my god… oh my god, the stew is Stu!”

The reaction was immediate: everyone recoiled in disgust. Gallant spit out what was in his mouth, Coco ran away from the table, screaming, “Mallory, put your finger down my throat!” and Dinah shoved her bowl away from her so fast that it flipped over and spilled. Evie and Venable were the only two who were unfazed.

“Relax,” Ms. Venable drawled in annoyance. “It’s only chicken. Our job is to keep everyone alive. We’d hardly be doing that if we fed you all radiated meat.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Evie said as she took another greedy bite. “Calm down, André. It’s just chicken.”

André’s lower lip quivered, not assured by this in the least bit. “You’re all cannibals!” he screamed, disgusted and infuriated.

Evie rolled her eyes. “For goodness sake,” she muttered, finishing the last bites of her meal.

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

“You heard her: it’s just chicken! Feeding us Stu would be incredibly stupid.”

“You’re a monster!”

As the back and forth went on, Isabel and Ms. Venable held each other’s gazes, Ms. Venable smirking in triumph as she saw Isabel receive the warning: behave or be eaten.

Isabel left the table without excusing herself, going back to her room.

She would probably throw up if it wasn’t for the fact that there was nothing in her stomach to throw up. The sickest part of it all: she wished there was something in her stomach. She wished that she had taken at least a bite so she wouldn’t be so empty.

Isabel flopped onto her bed, head hitting her pillow. She made a small noise of pain as her head hit something hard and for a horrifying second, she imagined bones hidden under her pillow. Then she remembered that she hid the book there, and pulled it out.

Her fingertip skated over the cover, her heart thudding. It was Stu in the stew. Punishment with a sick pun. A punishment. For an absurd moment, Isabel laughed and then she started crying.

How did she get into such a mess? She should have stayed home and died when the nukes went off. It was Armageddon; she shouldn’t be alive. It wasn’t fair. She was the only person in her family still breathing. What had she done to deserve that? Nothing that she could think of. She wasn’t a good person. She killed, she practiced magic; she abandoned the Murder House.

She wiped at her eyes, only somewhat brushing away the tears. Isabel caught sight of her reflection in the full length mirror that rested in the corner of the room. A melancholy girl with a tear stained face and gorgeous purple gown; a princess needing to be rescued from a tower. It was more luxurious than she deserved. All of it was. Surviving was more luxurious than she deserved.

In a sudden fit of rage, Isabel began tearing her dress off of her. It proved to be difficult, which frustrated her even more. She couldn’t even throw a fit properly! This was bullshit!

All of this was utter bullshit. She felt like she had stumbled through the looking glass and now existed in a topsy-turvy world that didn’t make sense. Buy a ticket and survive the apocalypse. Survive the apocalypse and live under a dictatorship. Live under a dictatorship and get eaten when rules are broken. Literally eat the rich.

Tumblr would be proud.

Isabel knew how to save herself. She wish she didn’t. She wish she could come up with another way. But at the moment, there was only one option. It became very apparent to her that no matter what magical abilities she mastered, Ms. Venable would always be more powerful.

She forced herself off of her bed, not bothering to straighten out her now askew dress. She needed to speak with Ms. Venable.


	12. Chapter Eleven

In the large office that once belonged to the Headmaster when this place was a school, Wilhelmina stared at the file that was laid out before her on the grand oak desk. Everything was handwritten as it had not been created before the end of the world. The name at the top was ISABEL NOBLE.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. It was supposed to be a man named Derek with the same last name. His file was useless; there wasn’t much information in it and nothing pertaining to Isabel. A lot of basic facts were missing from Isabel’s file, yet it was still stuffed. Every day since the apocalypse, Wilhelmina had been adding to it; nit-picky details such as every time Isabel defied her, or which days she did and did not speak. Pointless, perhaps, yet all of it spoke to her character.

There was a section that was blank and unlabeled. It was the only section Wilhelmina was interested in as it would truly tell her what Isabel was. Human wasn’t the word. There was something more to her; something threatening. And Wilhelmina Venable would not be threatened.

A knock echoed throughout the office. Ms. Venable calmly collected the papers, storing them back in the manila folder. “Enter,” she said, knowing exactly who was calling upon her.

“A Gray said you’d be in here,” Isabel explained, as if she needed to. “You knew I’d come and find you, didn’t you?”

“I do prefer a more professional setting for conducting business.” Ms. Venable remained seated, hand on her cane. A finger tapped lightly in rhythm on the top of it.

Isabel contemplated turning around and just leaving. She could get out of this. Hell, maybe she could leave the outpost altogether. Surely the fact that she was a witch provided some protection against radiation poisoning? No, that didn’t sound right. That was wishful thinking, not factual.

“Well?” Ms. Venable asked expectantly. “Go on.” She knew Isabel was going to say something to her, certain it would be her agreeing to an alliance.

“What kind of school was this place?”

The question hung in the air, Isabel awaiting a reply and Ms. Venable unsure of what to say. “It was a school for boys―” Ms. Venable started.

“What kind of school?”

Ms. Venable stood up from the chair, clearly not pleased with Isabel’s demanding tone. “I don’t see why it should matter―”

“Sit down,” Isabel ordered.

It was as if Ms. Venable was hypnotized, unable to resist. She followed Isabel’s command, sitting back down in the chair. She stared up at the young woman, perplexed. What she found even more perplexing was the look of fear in Isabel’s eyes. How odd. Whatever power Isabel had, she didn’t like it. What did she possess that frightened her so?

“You are a curious girl, aren’t you? You could be something more than a helpless Purple, yet you go along with the charade,” Ms. Venable said, remaining in her seat. But even with Isabel now standing over her, she was the one in charge. “We can be something more.”

Isabel knew that Ms. Venable wasn’t referring to anything other than being the ones in charge of Outpost 3, but that didn’t stop the small flutter in her stomach. And why shouldn’t she feel this way? Ms. Venable was a woman who took charge and could offer safety. With the end of the world, those were the most attractive things.

Ignoring Ms. Venable’s offer, Isabel once again asked, “What kind of school was this?”

“An all boys school,” Ms. Venable answered, “named Hawthorne School. That’s all I know.”

Hawthorne… she knew that name. Isabel knew that name from somewhere. Was it because it was somewhat common? Or maybe it was a historical name that she couldn’t quite place. She couldn’t focus enough to try and come up with the answer. Her mind was far too distracted at the moment.

“I answered your question. Now you answer mine,” Ms. Venable said, tilting her head to the side slightly. She dared to stand up again, always using the cane for support. She took a step towards Isabel, and though she wasn’t much taller, Isabel felt like Ms. Venable was towering above her. “Will you join me?”

What if she said no? Would she be shot and eaten? Isabel knew she couldn’t risk even thinking about opposing. “What would we even do? Rule the outpost and then the world?” she asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“If you’d like.” Ms. Venable’s response was dead serious, which surprised Isabel. “A reset button for the world has been pressed, Miss Noble. We may do whatever we want to it.”

“’’””’’’”””’’””

_Dear Moira,_

_I’m sure you know I feel kind of stupid doing this. Writing a letter you’ll never get is so pointless. But I guess I just need someone to talk to. I tried writing to Constance and the words just weren’t coming. I even tried writing to Dad, but it was the same problem. I feel like they won’t understand what I’m trying to say._

_Maybe you won’t either, but I have a feeling you will. Would. Whatever._

_It’s been… I don’t even know how many months since the nukes went off. Maybe three? Four? The end of the world is awful; nothing like what they show in movies. We aren’t going out to hunt for food, or fighting zombies._

_I’m at a place called Outpost 3, and we never leave. And the woman who runs it insists on keeping up a Victorian/Edwardian aesthetic. I feel like I’m living out a PBS period piece. Or maybe HBO fits better with the amount of violence happening. Yeah, we aren’t hunting zombies but the amount of hostility and bloodshed… okay only one guy died so far, but that’s one more body than there should be._

_There’s so much I wish I could explain about that. But I won’t because I know exactly how you’d react anyway._

_I miss home. Who knew that a place filled with the living would be lonelier than a place filled with the dead?_

_Tell the house I’m sebbg._

Isabel stared at the page in her notebook, the word “sorry” smudged into a nonexistent word because of a tear.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine Constance telling her that she was being silly for crying. She had done the right thing, sparing her own life. But she couldn’t hear it. And for a brief moment, Isabel panicked, thinking she had forgotten her mother’s voice. Then it came into her head, crystal clear:

Isabel, it’s time to go.

The pipes burst and her eyes flooded.

She didn’t know how long she cried for. She didn’t care. She let herself sob; four months of pent up sorrow finally released.

Four months of regret.

Four months of safety because of the alliance she agreed to with Ms. Venable. And though she had not done anything yet, there was this awful feeling in the pit of her stomach that one day, Ms. Venable was going to ask something horrid of her. Not to mention that there seemed to be no prospect of rescue. Outpost 3 was not meant to be home for the rest of their lives, but there was no contact from anyone on the outside. There were more outposts, but they were all silent.

Hugging a pillow tightly to her body, Isabel lay down. Her muscles ached as her body shuddered and heaved.

Her chest felt heavy, and she breathed deeply to try and get herself to calm down. She didn’t even notice when she drifted off to sleep until she found herself no longer in Outpost 3.

She was back in the Murder House. It had been a while since she dreamt of this place. In fact, it was a while since she had any sort of dream. Isabel wasn’t surprised though. She felt a sense of belonging. This wasn’t an ordinary dream, and she was meant to be here.

Again, the place was devoid of ghosts, but not entirely empty as it had been before. The furniture was replaced, and a comforting fire crackled in the living room. There was no baby with goat legs. No Rubberman. No infantata.

Isabel looked down at her forearm to see the scar, now barely visible after years of healing. It could only be seen if one was really looking for it. Sometimes she forgot it was there altogether; forgot about the time the demon baby in the basement decided she was a snack.

There was no evil here.

But there was something here. Not evil, but something formidable.

She went into the kitchen, and started making herself a cup of tea. A part of her knew it would taste like nothing. If only it were that easy to dream up such a comfort. But the act itself of drinking tea was enough.

Much to her surprise, the mug at least felt warm in her hands. Isabel had been expecting nothing, or for it to be cold and therefore make her miserable. The taste was weak, but it did taste of tea. That didn’t seem right. This was a dream; she shouldn’t be able to taste anything, or feel the warmth of the mug. What was doing this?

The presence, Isabel decided. Whatever was here with her was allowing for this. She stared down at her tea with trepidation, wondering if the presence really was malevolent and poisoned the drink. Isabel took another hesitant sip. No, not poison. Or maybe it was and she would drop dead any moment. She drank anyway because honestly, that whole “you die in your dream, you die in real life” was absolute bullshit.

And if she did die, would that really be so bad?

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be afraid of dying,” a soft-spoken voice chided.

It came from somewhere, but Isabel couldn’t see the source. There was no one around. Her feet carried her instinctively to her father’s… her study. She opened the door, revealing a pale woman in a black dress with lively red lipstick. Isabel remained in the threshold. This woman was not a foe, but she was certainly no friend.

“I didn’t call you,” Isabel said to the Angel of Death.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know you could visit dreams.”

“It isn’t something I do often,” Shachath answered. “Only when necessary.” And this was very necessary.

Deeming it safe, Isabel entered the study. She took a gulp of her tea. “You must have been busy what with this whole end of the world thing.” Shachath didn’t respond. “Right, not here for small talk. What’s up?” So casual; so unworried. The Angel was no friend, but she was a familiar face. And in a time of crisis, that was welcomed.

“I’ve come to warn you of about the end of days.”

“Uh… little late for that,” Isabel pointed out.

“Do you really think this is it?” Shachath chuckled, shaking her head. Humans were so naive, witches even more so. “I would have thought you’d be more clever. This is only the start.”

Isabel stiffened. No, there couldn’t possibly be more, yet she knew Shachath spoke the truth. “There aren’t any more bombs to set off.”

“No, there aren’t,” Shachath agreed. “Mortal warfare is over. He is coming.”

Though Shachath didn’t make an explicit statement, the image of the baby with goat legs flashed in her mind. That was the “he” who was coming. Isabel noticed that her mug of tea had vanished, and that the house was devoid of furniture once again. It was just her and the Angel of Death.

“What is he?” Isabel asked, already knowing the answer in her heart. Shachath didn’t respond; her coal black eyes said enough. “Well, I guess I should feel honored that the Angel of Death paid me a personal visit to warn me about the Antichrist.” There was a pause, the word tasting funny on Isabel’s tongue. “That’s what’s coming, right? The Antichrist?”

“Oh, but he’s so much more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tread carefully. As much as you wish for me to kiss you, you must stay alive. They’re depending on you.”

“Okay, what does that mean?”

Shachath smiled sympathetically. She came close to Isabel, cupping her cheek and allowing her thumb to gently caress Isabel’s bottom lip. The girl who had quite literally been to hell and back. “Someday you’ll know my affection,” Shachath promised. “But right now it’s time to wake up.”

Isabel’s eyes shot open in a cartoonish manner. She slowly sat up, muscles aching from the position she had fallen asleep in. Her notebook containing her letter to Moira was on the ground; she had kicked it off the bed at some point.

She gently touched her lips. They were as cold as death. Smiling softly to herself, Isabel got up from the bed and left her room.

It was the middle of the night still; the entire outpost was asleep. The floor she traversed upon was as cold as her lips. On tiptoes she crept to the main drawing room. It was peaceful; the radio had been turned down low but not off. Never off.

Isabel turned up the volume a little bit, finding the tune not so maddening but more comforting in this moment; a voice that wasn’t a Purple bemoaning how it was a tragedy they were so rich. She lay on the sofa, basking in the calmness. Honestly, if she was alone in Outpost 3, maybe the end of the world wouldn’t be so bad. She had books to surround herself with; she would never be bored.

She could practice magic if she was alone. That would keep her entertained. She didn’t used to like using her magic, but if she was alone and couldn’t hurt anyone and had nothing else to do, then why not practice some spells?

She never did figure out what this place used to be, Isabel realized. She sat up, the name of this place coming back to her: Hawthorne. What was the significance of that? Hawthorne School… maybe it only sounded familiar because it reminded her of Miss Robichaux’s Academy―

The song suddenly switched to static, the Carpenters cutting out. Isabel stared with a frown, wondering what was going on. She stood up from the sofa and as she walked over to the radio. As she reached it, music started playing again, but it wasn’t “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft.”

Isabel’s heart stopped as the familiar beat of “Gold Dust Woman” filled the room.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a tad longer than usual! My laptop charger died and I won't be able to update again until I get a new one.

The next day, Isabel’s dream seemed very far away. But Isabel knew better than to pretend that it never happened. It had happened. She met the Angel of Death in her dreams, warning her about the Antichrist.

Everyone was gathered in the main drawing room, “socializing,” a glass of mineral water in hand, imaginations pretending it was champagne.

The radio no longer belted out Stevie Nicks, and had returned to The Carpenters, making Isabel wonder if she had imagined it, or hallucinated it from sleep deprivation. But the song had been crystal clear. And really, if she had been hallucinating a song, it would have been one by Elsa Mars.

“Surely the mineral water isn’t that fascinating,” Evie remarked, watching Isabel stare intently at the drink. She didn’t like how Isabel was in her head. She was thinking much too hard. What was there to think about? What could possibly require so much concentration?

Isabel looked to Evie, needing a second to process what the woman said. “Oh, no, I’m just…” Just what? She didn’t have an appropriate word.

“You’re lucky you can tune out this god awful music,” Gallant complained as he smacked the radio. The music gargled for a second, and everyone’s heads raised in hope, only for The Carpenters to return.

“It changed last night,” Isabel blurted out. Maybe she had imagined it. Or maybe it changed for someone else, too. The only way to find out was ask.

Dinah frowned, cocking her head to the side. “What do you mean?” she asked, reminding Isabel of an investigative reporter suddenly hit with a surprising twist in a story but unable to give away any sense of being caught off guard.

Isabel straightened up on the couch, all eyes on her. “I um… I had a nightmare last night, so I came out here to just sort of unwind and the music changed.” When everyone’s gazes morphed from intrigue to scrutiny, she quickly added, “It could’ve just been a glitch. But it changed.” Fuck, maybe she was crazy.

“Or maybe you were still dreaming,” Evie said dismissively, downing her mineral water like a shot of vodka. She held out the empty glass, and Mallory came over and took it. “Think, what is more likely: the music changing or you being half asleep?”

“I was pretty awake at that point,” Isabel tried to argue, but it fell flat. So, the music didn’t change for anyone else. And now everyone thought she was nuts. She sat back on the sofa and sipped her water, continuing to grimace at the taste that she was sure she would never get used to.

Mallory brought Evie a fresh mineral water, giving Isabel a small, sympathetic smile as she passed by her. Normally, she supported Isabel, but the claim was too much of a stretch.

The radio glitched again, the sound cutting out and replaced with static. Everyone stared at the device, waiting for The Carpenters to return.

But The Carpenters had left. A new chord progression started, and the voice of Maureen McGovern filled the room, singing about how there had to be a morning after.

Involuntarily, a wide grin spread across Isabel’s face. She wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t Stevie, but it was a different song. “I knew it,” she whispered, so proud of herself for not losing her mind.

Mallory walked over to the radio and listened closely. “It’s a message,” she said with certainty. “This radio is from the Cooperative, right? I think this is a message. They’re telling us it’s going to be okay.”

There were cheers from everyone. Glasses clinked, and Gallant started obnoxiously singing along. Even André brightened up.

It was going to be okay. The Cooperative was finally going to come for them and bring them to safety. They were going to get out of here. There was going to be a morning after.

Two months.

Isabel counted. She didn’t know what month it was, or even what year it was (surely they hadn’t been stuck in the outpost for an entire year yet?) but she counted the days and about two months (give or take a day) had passed since her strange dream and the change of music, which nobody initially believed.

Two months since the radio song changed. It hadn’t changed since, and now continued to play “The Morning After.”

There hadn’t been a morning after. The mornings were the same. Wake up, have a cube, talk to people she didn’t like, and spend hours on end in the library until the next mealtime. It grew tedious. And Isabel was really starting to miss “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft.” That song was longer and didn’t repeat as much because of it.

If the Cooperative was behind this, why couldn’t they have chosen better songs or bands, like Nirvana? No, not Nirvana. That would have made Isabel terribly homesick. Her brother loved Nirvana.

God, she hadn’t thought about Tate in so long. Sometimes Isabel hated that she cared about him. She shouldn’t. He was a murderer; he shot up his school. And a part of her would never forget that and would never forgive him for it. But she met and became friends with him before knowing all of that, and that part of her still cared.

“You’re quiet,” Ms. Venable remarked, not even bothering to look up from her book.

Isabel did look up from her book. “I’m always quiet,” she pointed out.

“This is different.” Ms. Venable paused a moment, still not looking up from her book but her eyes no longer focused on the words. “Contemplative.” She finally met Isabel’s eyes. “You’re thinking too hard again.”

Feeling called out, Isabel’s cheeks turned a light pink. It was barely noticeable in the firelight.

It was late, and the library was cozy. The two were indulging in this strange nightly ritual that sprouted out of nowhere a few weeks prior. Ms. Venable once caught Isabel reading the hours away at night when everyone else had gone to bed; books that were from the top shelf and unreachable. That night in particular, she left Isabel alone. The next night, she joined, sitting in the other overstuffed chair. Isabel hadn’t said anything in complaint and it somehow turned into this routine thing between them: coming into the library after everyone else, Ms. Meade included, went to bed.

Isabel had been annoyed at first. This was her time to herself to not worry about anyone bother her. And she knew that Ms. Venable only stuck around to observe her. But after a few days, Isabel grew used to it. Now it was something to look forward to.

“The end of the world made you weak.”

“You didn’t know me before the end of the world,” Isabel pointed out.

“I know the woman who first came here. Fresh off the plane. Devastated. Broken.” There was no argument. Ms. Venable knew she was right. She had seen it in Isabel’s eyes. This young woman faced hardship, but nothing could have prepared her for the apocalypse. “I thought perhaps you would repair yourself after some time. But you settled into your new shell.”

“I thought you liked me submissive.”

Ms. Venable allowed herself to smirk at Isabel’s word choice. A broken young woman, but occasionally amusing nonetheless. Only occasionally. “I never said I didn’t.” She raised her chin slightly as she watched Isabel bite her lower lip, a habit she gave up on trying to quit. “What has you so quiet?”

Isabel was not about to delve into the entire tragic back story, mainly because the basic outline wasn’t terribly sad. It was the details that created drama, and there were too many details. For it all to make sense, Isabel would have to explain that her birth mother gave her up for adoption after her son shot up his school, and that Derek Noble adopted her and they moved to Los Angeles to the house where Isabel was originally conceived, her birth mother living right next door; it was too complex.

Instead of delving into all of the details, she said, “The song on the radio changed two months ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“We all thought it was a message from the Cooperative, saying they were coming to save us. But it’s been two months and no sign of rescue.” There was no hiding how disheartened Isabel was to admitting this out loud. It was admitting helplessness. “What even is the Cooperative?”

Ms. Venable marked her page before closing the book and setting it aside. “The Cooperative is the reason you’re alive. They created the outposts. They created the rules.”

“Like the unauthorized copulation? I still don’t get that one. Protected sex is a thing.”

“It’s too much of a risk,” Ms. Venable said, electing to not tear into Isabel for using such vulgar language in front of her. “We cannot take the chance of ending up with more mouths to feed than we prepared for.”

“Gay sex?”

Ms. Venable preferred it when Isabel was contemplative. “All forms of fornication are prohibited.”

“Unless authorized,” Isabel reminded Ms. Venable.

There was a pause, Ms. Venable studying this strange glint in Isabel’s eyes. “You are just determined to get under my skin, aren’t you?”

Isabel shrugged, returning to her book. “What can I say? I’m bored, there’s no alcohol, and I have mommy issues. It’s a recipe for disaster.” She pretended to read for a few moments as she soaked in Ms. Venable’s stare. She dropped her cocky act as reality settled once more. “Is the Cooperative going to come for us?”

She didn’t expect a yes, but that didn’t stop the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach when Ms. Venable said, “I don’t know.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a brief description of smut in the middle. If you're uncomfortable with that, there is a smut free version of this story under the same name on fanfiction.net!

They were surviving. The weeks continued, and they were surviving. Isabel stopped keeping track of the months. What was the point? The only thing she was pretty sure of was that she was twenty-five years old now.

The nights were dreamless. Days were dull and irritating. The only thing she had to look forward to were her evenings in the library, and that wasn’t much. Those were often quiet. Peaceful, yes. But when there wasn’t any sort of conversation, it felt like wasted time.

There were moments with Mallory that Isabel enjoyed. There was some sense of familiarity with Mallory, and she was more grounded than the people she came with. Well, as long as she wasn’t around Coco. Isabel noticed how Mallory adopted a more air-head persona. It was annoying, but she was grateful that Mallory didn’t act that way all of the time.

“God, I miss alcohol,” Isabel mumbled as she finished off her third glass of mineral water.

“Felt that,” Mallory agreed as she refilled the glass. It was one of those times when Coco decided to take a nap because really there was nothing else for her to do. And while that didn’t mean Mallory could take a break from being a Gray, she could at least relax around Isabel.

“What do you miss most?”

Mallory smiled as she thought about all of the luxuries of her old life. Back then, it hadn’t seemed like much, but now she saw just how privileged she was. “Instagram. It’s stupid, but I always got excited when I got notifications that people liked my photos.” It was something younger generations took for granted and older generations scoffed at. It was something she didn’t think she would miss, yet here she was. “What about you?”

Oh there were so many things Isabel missed. She missed her father, though he was gone long before the end of the world. She missed the smell of the study: ink, coffee, and a hint of her father’s old cologne as if it had been embedded in the wood. She missed Nancy. Her stomach lurched as she remembered that the last time she spoke with Nancy was during their lunch at the cafe, when Nancy explained the mysterious ticket to Outpost 3.

And there was one thing she missed above all else.

“My house,” Isabel answered, a fond smile playing on her lips. “It was this grand thing, built in the 1920s by a doctor.” More of a mad scientist, actually, but Mallory didn’t need to know that. “It was beautiful, and so… loving.” Yes, that was the word. Isabel loved the house and it loved her. “It was like a friend.” Realizing she was probably sounding weird, Isabel quickly added, “I also miss writing.”

Mallory listened intently to Isabel, confused but thrilled at the description of the house, when Isabel changed course. She raised her eyebrows. “You’re a writer?”

“Yeah… author, actually. I guess I can call myself that.” It wasn’t something Isabel openly admitted. It was a title that always belonged to her father, and was now hers.

“So you’ve been published?” Mallory sat down on the sofa beside Isabel. “What kind of books? Do you write those harlequin romance novels?” she asked excitedly.

Isabel laughed. It was a genuine sound that made her chest hurt. She didn’t even know what was so funny, really. Perhaps it was because she was experiencing what Derek experienced when he met a fan. Or perhaps it was how earnest Mallory was about the harlequin romance novels. “Uh, no. More supernatural-mystery-drama.”

Mallory’s cheeks colored, embarrassed that she just openly admitted her love for the supermarket smut genre. “Oh, nice. Like um, Hotel Sin.”

“Exactly.”

That word didn’t hit Mallory in the way Isabel meant. When Isabel said exactly, she meant just that: exactly. Hotel Sin was her first book and her first success. Her heart swelled in appreciation with the mere fact that Mallory at least knew the title, even if Mallory didn’t connect the dots that she was the author Z. Langdon.

When evening rolled around― that twilight zone time after dinner and before reading in the library where everyone was awake, too bored to stay awake and not tired enough to just go to bed― Isabel returned to her bedroom took out her notebook. There were more letters addressed to Moira, though really they were just diary entries.

_Dear Moira,_

_Weird encounter today. Mallory (remember her from my last twenty letters? Haha) found out I wrote books. Almost found out that I was Z. Langdon. Conversation didn’t quite make it that far, and I’m glad it didn’t. I don’t know, I like having at least one secret in this place._

_I do have that other secret… but I have a feeling that Ms. Venable has a strong inkling as to what my secret is. Not that I’ve been very subtle about it. Did I tell you that I sort of exposed myself? A bit of accidental Concilium. Oops._

_Life is so fragmented now, ironic considering that all the days blend together. Just long stretches of nothing. Then something will happen, and that’s the defining moment; the marker of time._  
  
_Is this what it’s like being trapped in the house?_

_I don’t know when rescue is coming. If rescue is coming. Apparently the Cooperative, whatever the hell that really is, was meant to come get us once things have settled down. Well, it’s been what, over a year? And no sign of anyone coming to get us. I truly think we may starve to death in here. That is if Ms. Venable doesn’t kill us all first._

Isabel put down her pen. There was so much more she wanted to say, but she was running low on ink. She still had some extra pens, but this was her third pen that she nearly used all the way up and she needed to be much more conservative.

She closed her notebook, setting it down on the bedside table before laying down on her bed and staring at the ceiling. The quiet moments really were incredibly dull. No ghosts to bother her… which really was the strangest thing. Most of the world’s population was incinerated; really there ought to be more dead people haunting her. But nothing. Not even Stu, and he died within the walls. It was as if…

It was as if magic protected this place.

And why shouldn’t it? Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men was bound to have protective charms that still remained, just as Miss Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies.

When Isabel realized that this place used to be a school for warlocks, she did briefly wonder if Miss Robichaux’s had also been turned into an outpost. Isabel was quick to shove that thought from her mind, though; too painful to think about. Her fellow witches probably needed her during this massive crisis, and she abandoned them years ago.

Guilt weighing heavily in her chest, Isabel turned over onto her side, deciding to skip dinner and just try to go to bed, knowing full well that sleep wouldn’t come easily.

Isabel didn’t remember falling asleep. She was convinced she didn’t actually fall asleep. She may have dozed off, but a deep sleep was a stranger to her because survivor’s guilt once again tapped her on the shoulder then whacked her in the face. It seemed every time she dared to think about something of her life before the nukes hit, a bout of misery followed. She was guilty of being alive.

She sat up and stared at the closet. She would need to get dressed and go down to the dining hall and sit through a meal she didn’t want.

No, she wouldn’t go through that. One day in bed. Venable would yell at her. Maybe cane her. She didn’t care; she just needed to not move.

Isabel closed her eyes again, trying to drift off to sleep. She was nearly there when there was a sharp rapping at her door. Instead of answering, Isabel threw the duvet over her head like a teenager being told to get up for school and refusing.

The door opened, and she listened to the sound of footsteps followed by the tapping of a cane on the floor. Great.

Ms. Venable yanked the duvet off of Isabel. “Get up,” she commanded.

Groggily, Isabel obeyed. She knew she looked like shit: dark circles under her eyes, messy hair, her nightgown askew. She looked at Ms. Venable, clearly not amused by any of this.

“I had such high hopes for you. You pushed my buttons when you first got here but you settled into your place.” Ms. Venable cupped Isabel’s cheek lovingly. Then she gripped Isabel’s chin harshly, her fingernails digging into Isabel’s skin. “But then you will time and time again defy me and test me. Tell me Miss Noble: do you want me to punish you?”

“Would at least give me something to do,” Isabel answered with some difficulty seeing as Ms. Venable was gripping her jaw.

She shivered as Ms. Venable’s hand slithered from her jaw to her throat. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Ms. Venable threatened. Her hand paused at Isabel’s throat, but kept going and came to a stop between the young woman’s breasts. She felt Isabel’s heart beat faster, and smirked.

Ms. Venable gave Isabel a little push, and the young woman sat down on the bed, staring up at Ms. Venable with wide-eyed wonder. “What will you do for forgiveness?”

“Anything,” Isabel answered automatically, knowing that was the right answer.

“Absolutely anything?”

Isabel frowned, confused by all of this. Why now? Why this nonsense? She didn’t ask any questions, though, not daring to push Ms. Venable further. When Ms. Venable told her to lay down, she obeyed. When Ms. Venable ordered her to remove her underwear, she obliged despite her racing heart and shaking hands. When she was directed to spread her legs, she made sure her nightgown was hiked up and out of the way.

“Now touch yourself.”

That gave Isabel pause. She didn’t say anything; she physically couldn’t form words. Ms. Venable grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled harshly. “Do not make me repeat myself,” she threatened, releasing Isabel.

Though her heart was practically vibrating from fear and excitement, Isabel was absolutely frozen. She couldn’t bring her hand to where Ms. Venable wanted it. Was it fear? Shame? Perhaps she was too overcome by the fact that Ms. Venable was seeing her exposed. That in itself was overwhelming… and a turn-on. If she could freeze time and simply relish this moment, she absolutely would. But Ms. Venable had other plans.

“Are you suddenly deaf? Or are you just continuing to test my patience?” she snapped. But then her irritation gave way to an intrigued smirk. “Oh,” she said slowly. “I see.” She let her cane rest on the bed, and leaned over Isabel. “You’d rather I do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Copulation is forbidden,” Isabel said after swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Unauthorized,” Ms. Venable corrected.

Isabel’s breath caught in her throat as Ms. Venable’s fingertips ghosted over her stomach. “Because you like having someone else take control,” Ms. Venable continued, her fingers traveling lower and lower until… Isabel’s eyes fluttered shut and her back involuntarily arched. The sensation was exquisite. It was like how all of the harlequin romance novels described, firelight and everything. The only thing missing was Fabio Lanzoni, and Isabel was perfectly okay with that.

Her hands grasped her nightgown, twisting at the delicate fabric. Isabel wanted to swear, but she couldn’t formulate words. But Ms. Venable wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Say my name,” Ms. Venable commanded, and that command alone nearly got Isabel off. “Say it.”

“Ms. Venable,” Isabel breathed, raising her hips to meet Ms. Venable’s fingers.

“No,” Ms. Venable snapped, emphasized by a sharp jerk of her wrist, making Isabel yelp. “Say. My. Name.”

“W-Wilhelmina,” Isabel gasped.

“Miss Noble,” Ms. Mead said sharply. “If you’d like to join the rest of us down here on earth?”

Isabel blinked slowly, returning to reality. She was in the dining room. Breakfast. Right. More and more she was indulging in her thoughts, creating scenes in her head to make the days less boring.

She barely remembered waking up in the morning; she hardly slept. Isabel longed for coffee. The caffeine headaches had subsided after a few weeks of being at Outpost 3, but she still craved the warm, bitter drink. It would certainly make being awake much more enjoyable.

She poked at her cube. Even now she still wasn’t used to the unflavored gelatin. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to make it strawberry or lemon. Hell, she’d even accept orange (arguably the worst flavor). The tastelessness of the squishy cubes made mealtimes so monotonous.

“Savor it now while you can,” Ms. Venable said as she watched the Purples toy with their cubes. “It will be all you’re getting. We will be cutting down to one cube a day.”

Coco dropped her fork and it clattered against her plate. “What the hell do you mean dropping to one cube a day?”

Keeping her composure (but not hiding her annoyance), Ms. Venable explained, “Our resources are running low. The Cooperative is taking longer than we anticipated. If we are to sustain life, we must make sacrifices. Anyone who has a problem with this is more than welcome to starve to death.”

Unease settled amongst the group. Nervous gazes were exchanged. Even Isabel, who mostly tuned out during the morning announcements, looked around the table.

“Adversity can forge the strongest bonds,” Dinah said, masking her worry with words of wisdom.

No one was falling for it.

Coco rolled her eyes. “Oh shut up. No one is going to be bonding because we’re all going to die down here.”

Isabel tried tuning the exchange out, too tired to deal with the bullshit, and also because she was focusing. Isabel’s gaze was trained on Ms. Meade because, while looking around at everyone, Isabel noticed something. It was small; easily dismissed, but perplexing to anyone who caught it: a twitch of Ms. Meade’s head. Almost… mechanical.

“We’re going to starve to death; a slow and painful death,” Coco dragged on.

“Starving to death would be better than continuing to live like this,” André lamented.

“Jesus Christ, put on some eyeliner and go cry to My Chemical Romance if you’re going to be emo.”

“My boyfriend is dead, I’m allowed to be sad!”

“Oh boo-fucking-hoo, cry me a river!”

Ms. Venable raised her cane and slammed it down on the ground, the resounding crack forcing everyone into silence. “We will cut down to one cube a day, and see how long that will last us.”

Isabel piped up, “And after that?”

She didn’t like how Ms. Venable slightly raised her chin. Isabel had come to know it as a sign of uncertainty in the person who was supposed to be absolutely certain about everything in this place. “We will cross that bridge when we get there.”

It wasn’t an answer. No one was sure if they even wanted an answer.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Lunch was canceled, leaving nothing for anyone in the afternoon to do. This left plenty of time for laying around and actually talking to each other. Over a year in this place, and everyone still felt like a stranger. Isabel supposed if she was going to starve to death with these people, then she ought to know more than their names.

It wasn’t going well.

“I can’t believe we’re going to die down here,” Coco whined, continuing to lament like she had been doing for the past two hours or so (though it felt much, much longer).

“Well, the bright side is: we’re already six feet under,” Isabel said. She felt eyes on her and looked around at the group. “Oh come on, that’s funny.” But no one was laughing.

“Great, so we’re going to die down here listening to the world’s worst comedian,” Gallant complained. He was sprawled out on one of the sofa’s like a nineteenth century widow who had come down with a case of the vapors.

“We should just kill ourselves,” said Coco. “We should just kill ourselves and get it over with.”

“No one is stopping you,” André replied flippantly.

“Stop,” Isabel chastised him. “No one is killing themselves… if only for the fact that if someone does kill themselves, we’ll probably be forced to eat them. I don’t know about any of you, but becoming one of the Donner party isn’t one of my aspirations.”

There was silent agreement among the group. Maureen McGovern’s voice was soft, still going on about the morning after. She wouldn’t shut up about it. The radio couldn’t turn off, so they all settled for the lowest volume to keep from going crazy. However, it seemed going crazy was inevitable.

It was infuriating. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The end of the world shouldn’t have happened. They shouldn’t be sitting underground, rotting away while some corporation that was meant to save them continued to ignore them.

“What if the Cooperative doesn’t exist?” Isabel murmured, the soul crushing thought entering her mind.

No one heard her. Perhaps she hadn’t said it aloud at all. Isabel debated on just leaving it at that; this idea could create a riot. But it bothered her. It bothered her that no one else was bothered. There was supposed to be this group looking out for them, but there was no indication that they existed. Yes, there was the radio. Yes, there was Ms. Venable and Ms. Meade. Beyond that, though? Emptiness.

Isabel spoke louder this time, “What if the Cooperative doesn’t exist?”

The room came to a screeching halt.

“Why would you even suggest such a thing?” Evie scoffed. “Of course the Cooperative exists. We gave them our money.”

That was a fair point. The Cooperative must have existed at some point because they all got tickets; proof of payment. But that was all before the world ended.

“What if the Cooperative didn’t survive the apocalypse?”

Saying it out loud scared Isabel. It should be impossible. The organization that created the outposts shouldn’t have perished. But there was a chance it could have happened. There was no communication from the Cooperative, so who was to say that it survived?

“The radio changed songs,” Dinah reminded everyone. “The Cooperative reached out to us through the radio. They must still be alive.”

“The radio’s changed before,” Isabel pointed out, still a bit salty that everyone so easily dismissed her claim that the radio changed one night. “And I doubt that they were using Stevie Nicks to send a message. For all we know, the radio could’ve been a fluke. Maybe radio waves are fucked up because of the fallout. I mean, we don’t even know what the Cooperative is.”

No one could argue against that. The Cooperative gave them tickets to survival. But what was the Cooperative?

No one really knew. The ideas started rattling around in their minds. Most of their minds anyway. Evie was disinterested. Dinah was more interested in watching everyone else. Isabel watched as Coco’s eyes got bright.

“Do you think the Cooperative is really the Illuminati?” Coco asked, oddly excited by this prospect. “You know I’m very into conspiracy theories. I’ve watched all of Shane Dawson’s videos.”

It was clear that out of everyone, André was the most annoyed with Coco, even compared to Isabel. Her claim that the Cooperative was the Illuminati made no sense! How could someone so dumb get this far in life? “If the Cooperative was the Illuminati, why don’t they just call themselves the Illuminati?”

“They could have changed the name so that people would trust them. Like, would you really buy a ticket from the Illuminati?”

“I would,” Gallant said.

André rolled his eyes. Were these people hearing themselves? “Oh and let me guess, you always believed that Ted Cruz is the Zodiac Killer?”

“Ted Cruz isn’t the Zodiac Killer,” Isabel interjected. She would know; she had met the actual Zodiac Killer at the annual Devil’s Night hosted at the Hotel Cortez. Dead killers only, and last she checked, Ted Cruz wasn’t dead. Well, maybe he was now. “And the Cooperative isn’t the Illuminati… but maybe they’re like the Illuminati.”

Dinah leaned forward in interest. She could see the gears turning in Isabel’s head. It was fascinating to see her think when she spent so much time being quiet. “What makes you say that?”

“Secret organization with access to resources that protect people against nuclear fallout? They obviously have money and power, like the Illuminati.” But there was something else that was tripping Isabel up: did they know what the Hawthorne school was before turning it into an outpost, or was it only because this place was underground?

Did the Cooperative know about witchcraft?

Were they a council of witches?

“How are you so sure they aren’t the Illuminati?” Coco asked, offended. Why was she being dismissed so easily? She could be right!

“Because lizard people don’t exist. That’s actually super antisemitic.” Isabel supposed she shouldn’t be so quick to shoot down Coco’s idea. But this wasn’t the Illuminati.

Was it?

No. No, it couldn’t be.

Isabel stood up. She needed to get away from these people; get away from all the talking over each other and theories that were throwing off her concentration.

No, even if she was alone she wouldn’t get anywhere. She didn’t need to think, she needed to ask questions.

“Where are you going?” Gallant asked, though not at all surprised that Isabel was abandoning them. She seemed so determined to separate herself from the group; to enforce the idea that she wasn’t one of them. It annoyed the shit out of him. She wasn’t better than any of them. If anything, he was better than her. He was the most sought out hair stylist. Who was she?

“To get some answers.”

Gallant frowned. “How? We’re underground with no internet connection.”

“Don’t need it. We’ve got a primary source.”

Isabel left everyone behind to get to that source. She wanted answers, and there was one, perhaps two people who had those answers.

Three knocks, and Isabel walked in. Ms. Venable was right where she expected her: at the desk, pouring over paperwork (though Isabel couldn’t imagine what kind of paperwork there was to do during the apocalypse).

“Knocking isn’t terribly effective if you enter without a response,” Ms. Venable deadpanned as she filled out her observations, something that had become a daily ritual for her as there wasn’t much else to do in this place. “What do you want?”

“To know about the Cooperative.”

Ms. Venable’s pen stopped mid-stroke. She looked up to meet Isabel’s eyes. “Why?”

Now that was interesting. What did it matter? Ms. Venable spoke so highly of the Cooperative; their saviors. Was Isabel not allowed to be curious about the organization? “It’s because of them I’m alive, right? I don’t even know who they are. What they are. Am I not allowed to know?”

That curious mind of hers was going to cause trouble, but she was done sitting around, waiting for things to happen to her. She needed to be proactive. This organization saved her life. She could hear Constance’s voice nagging her in the back of her mind, telling her to get off her ass and do something. Well, here she was: doing.

Ms. Venable tilted her head to the side. Dismissing Isabel would be easy; a wave of her hand and Isabel would vanish, like a magic trick. Instead, she sat back in her chair. “The Cooperative is a group of the elite.”

“So Purples.”

“No. Greater than that. Elite when the world was still in one piece. The greatest minds society has ever known.”

“And are they still alive?”

“Of course―”

“I don’t believe you.” Isabel’s expression was hardened. “It’s been almost two years since the world ended. The Cooperative hasn’t reached out to us at all. So either this entire outpost was just an elaborate set up, or the Cooperative didn’t survive.”

Silence.

Ms. Venable mulled over these words. She didn’t believe the Cooperative didn’t survive. How could she believe that? “The Cooperative is alive and well, and we will have contact any day now,” she said, sounding absolutely certain.

The alarms interrupted, startling Isabel. Her eyes went wide. Alarms were not a good sign. Ever.

“It seems someone is here,” Ms. Venable said, rising from her desk, appearing calm. She was supposed to be the level-headed leader, after all.

Isabel, on the other hand, was not calm. How could she be calm? The world was supposed to be dead! “Who the fuck is here?” Who could it possibly be? Her first thought was: zombies. She had come across ghosts, witches; honestly it was about damn time zombies showed up.

“How does that saying go? Speak of the devil and he shall appear; perhaps it’s the Cooperative. Excuse me.”

Ms. Venable left Isabel, picking up the pace as best she could when she knew Isabel could no longer see her.

So, Isabel was alone, not knowing what the hell was going on. Part of her considered going back to the others to tell them that someone was here. But she ultimately decided against dealing with that headache. She didn’t have enough information for them and no doubt she would be bombarded with questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer.

She remained in Ms. Venable’s office, waiting for what felt like two hours. In reality, it was much less than that. She straightened up when she heard footsteps accompanied by the click of the iconic cane.

Ms. Venable paused in the entryway of her office, having expected Isabel to be gone by then. “Miss Noble, I see your curiosity was once again too powerful to fight off.”

She came further into the room, Ms. Meade in tow and one other person: a man with long flowing hair that gleamed like silk. It was jarring, quite frankly.

“Introductions would be appropriate, Ms. Venable,” the man said smoothly, yet forcefully.

“Yes, of course. This is Isabel Noble. She took her father’s place here at the outpost,” Ms. Venable explained. “Miss Noble, this is a representative of the Cooperative: Michael Langdon.”

“What?” Isabel asked, her brain glitching for a moment. She thought she heard the last name Langdon, which was just her mind making a mistake when processing the last name. She was missing her family, that was all that was.

“Michael Langdon,” the man himself said, and there was no mistaking what he said.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice that I take heavy inspiration from Schitt's Creek, so enjoy that!

“He wants to interview us,” Isabel muttered. The crackling of the fire that once was so calming was now so ominous. “What does that even mean?”

“Weren’t you listening? He wants to see who is the most fit for survival.” André was fed up with everything. They purchased tickets for the outpost; they paid their dues! They should be done fighting for their lives! But this asshole said that there is one more step? That not all of them could go to the Sanctuary?

Isabel rolled her eyes. “I know that. I’m thinking out loud.”

“He looks like he’s gonna murder us, not interview us,” Gallant said.

“Someone has to be the sacrificial lamb,” Dinah said.

Everyone eyed each other. Who would it be?

André broke the silence. “I’m not getting murdered first.”

“Your boyfriend is dead. You’ve got nothing else to live for,” Coco stated, either forgetting that Dinah was his mother and she was right there, alive and well, or not caring enough to remember.

“You were the one saying we should all just kill ourselves. You get murdered first.”

“No, you get murdered first, André!”

“You get murdered first!”

“No, you!”

“No, You get murdered, Coco!”

“No, you get murdered first for once!”

“How about you both go so you can both be murdered?” Isabel snapped. The bickering pair immediately shut up, eyes wide. “Sorry,” Isabel added quietly, shame crawling up her spine. She didn’t mean that. While these people annoyed the shit out of her, with death being a very real possibility such words held power.

Only a few of them were going to be permitted to go to this place called the Sanctuary. The rest would be left to die in Outpost 3. The thought of being left behind underground made Isabel feel claustrophobic. Perhaps she had a fighting chance, though. She just needed to figure out who the hell Michael Langdon was.

“I’ll get murdered first,” Isabel decided.

She wanted to wait until the others had their interviews so that she could get a better idea of the man she would be dealing with, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.

When no one protested or said anything, Isabel was slightly offended. “Seriously? You guys are just going to let me go?”

“We thank you for your service,” Gallant said with a mocking solute.

“You all suck,” Isabel muttered bitterly, leaving the room.

The halls of the outpost felt eerie, more so than before. An uncomfortable heaviness settled in the pit of her stomach as she neared Ms. Venable’s office, which Michael was borrowing to conduct the interviews.

She rounded the corner in time to see Ms. Meade walk into the office. There were muffled voices, and Isabel dared to come closer but stopped short when she saw Ms. Venable step out, the door slamming shut behind her. There was something different about her. She was still walking tall, but it was forced. Her eyes glistened with tears.

“Leave,” Ms. Venable ordered Ms. Meade. From where she stood, Isabel could see that the back of Ms. Venable’s dress was unzipped, and for a moment, Isabel was sure that Ms. Venable hadn’t noticed her, until Ms. Meade was out of sight and Ms. Venable wordlessly looked at her.

Feeling daring, Isabel came nearer. “Ms. Venable?” She bit her lip when Ms. Venable averted her gaze, embarrassed and close to crying. It was very odd; Isabel felt like she was in the twilight zone. What the hell happened in the office?

Isabel moved to stand behind Ms. Venable, inhaling sharply when she saw it.

The curve of Wilhelmina’s spine was painful to even look at. Almost involuntarily, Isabel’s fingertips traced the crooked line. So this was why she had the cane… Isabel’s own forearm tingled in remembrance; a scar, hidden by the sleeves of her dress, that had faded over the years but would never go away thanks to the demon baby that lived in her basement.

Slowly, Isabel zipped up the back of Wilhelmina’s dress, catching the faint scent of midnight fleur; perfume used sparingly.

Wilhelmina shuddered; no one had been this close to her in years. She never allowed it. Damn that Michael Langdon. He not only humiliated her, but exposed her. Anger began pulsing through her veins. She was in charge here, and this man swoops in and tries taking over? She wasn’t going to stand for it.

She turned on her heels to face Isabel suddenly, wanting to smirk when she saw Isabel tense. Even with her secret exposed, she was in charge. Mr. Langdon could play pretend all he wanted, but this was her outpost.

“Say nothing,” Ms. Venable instructed, her voice low, almost a husky whisper.

“And if I do?” Isabel asked.

Ms. Venable raised her hand and Isabel flinched, expecting to be hit. Instead, Ms. Venable lay the back of her hand gently on Isabel’s cheek. “Oh Miss Noble,” she chastised. “When will you learn that I am a far better ally than enemy?”

Isabel didn’t respond; she couldn’t find any words. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to… Isabel bit her lip again as she watched Ms. Venable walk away. She took a moment to catch her breath before turning and knocking on the office door.

It immediately opened. Michael Langdon loomed over her. Isabel thought she would feel intimidated, but she didn’t. There was something about him that was childish.

“I’m here to do the interview,” Isabel said when Michael looked at her expectantly.

“How noble of you,” Michael said with a soft chuckle at his dumb joke. “But it isn’t your time.”

“You sound like the grim reaper.”

“For the time being I am.” After all, he was the one who got to decide who was taken to the Sanctuary and who was left to rot. “Your turn will come soon enough.”

Michael was eager to speak with her, but he wanted to savor it.

So Isabel was shut out of the office. She was irritated that her bout of courage was diminished.

What was she even supposed to do now? How long would the others take?

A long time apparently. A couple of days passed, and Isabel was given no indication that her turn was coming up. It was frustrating. She just wanted to get this over with; she wanted to know who Michael was!

Constance had never mentioned a Michael before. Was there any reason to? Maybe the last name was just a coincidence? A pretty big coincidence. There was something about him that looked vaguely familiar. And of course, there was the fact that the Angel of Death came to her and warned her about the Antichrist coming and lo and behold this dude with ungodly good hair showed up.

Well, Isabel supposed the quickest way to confirm was to visit Hell itself, as much as she didn’t want to. Descensum was her specialty, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. She didn’t see much of a choice though.

Isabel went back to her room so that she could perform the spell in peace. She lay down on her bed.

Was she really about to do this?

Not only was it a stupid thing to do, but the idea of going back to her personal Hell terrified her, even though she had better control as compared to her very first experience.

It was the quickest way to reach the person she wanted to talk to. She paused for a moment to make sure there were no approaching footsteps. When she was sure she wouldn’t be disturbed, Isabel shut her eyes.

A deep breath.

“Spiritu duce in me est deduc me in tenebris vita ad extremum ut salutaret 'nferi. Descensum!”  
  
She was plunged into darkness for a moment. The icy claw of death guided her soul down to the depths of existence.

When Isabel opened her eyes, she was back in that awful place that she always started in. Cracked stone walls, leather straps pulled tightly around her wrists and ankles; a patient cell in Briarcliff Manor in its heyday. A small part of her had been wishing that her personal Hell would have morphed into something else, but no. It was still the same awful, awful place. Fear gripped her heart for a moment, and then there was an overwhelming sense of calmness.

“I was wondering when you would try this,” Shachath said from the doorway. “I don’t suppose I can blame you for being so hesitant.”

“Well now that I’m here, mind helping me out of these straps? I don’t like being tied down when there isn’t a safe-word.”

Not amused, Shachath walked up to the cot Isabel was tied down to and undid the leather straps, which had already marred Isabel’s skin. “The Antichrist, he’s arrived,” the angel said, answering Isabel’s question before she even had the chance to ask it. “I can’t tell you how to stop him.”

“No, of course not,” Isabel muttered, sitting up and massaging her wrists. “He says his last name is Langdon. Is he making that up?”

“No.” Shachath watched as the despair settled in Isabel’s face. She wished she could give a different answer, but the truth couldn’t be denied. “You know who he is.”

Isabel would beg to differ. She had never met Michael before. She didn’t know who he was. He was just some weird man who showed up and had the same last name as her mother. “He’s not like my brother or something, is he?”

Shachath shook her head. “You know who he is. Remember.”

“But I’ve never met―” Isabel cut off. Remember. Maybe she couldn’t remember right up front, but there had to be some part of her subconscious that recalled this.

Descensum was more than just traveling to a personal Hell. For those who were unskilled, then yes it was simply that. But to Isabel, a descendant of past Supreme Mimi Delongpre, the girl who lived with death, it was so much more. When she first came to this place, she was a slave to the rules of the universe; she had been nothing more than a lost soul. Now? This was her Hell. She was in control.

Isabel slowly turned around as the stone walls faded into oblivion.

She was on a street in Los Angeles. Drunk adults in half-assed costumes tried holding each other up as they stumbled home.

It was Halloween.

She vaguely recalled this night. How many years ago had it been now? Racking her brain for answers, Isabel was suddenly pushed into the street by an invisible force, and was immediately blinded by headlights. A hand clad in black latex grabbed her and pulled her out of the way of the oncoming car.

Isabel suddenly remembered. Halloween of 2012. She had been a student at Miss Robichaux’s Academy when she had been granted permission to go home for Halloween. That was when she had almost gotten hit by a car (for the second Halloween in a row) and had been saved by a stranger in a black latex sex suit.

Where else had she seen him?

The world around her melted away and she was back in the cell, still not quite understanding. So Michael was connected to the Rubberman? But who was the Rubberman? She knew this; she knew that she knew this. But the answer wouldn’t come―

“Tate,” Isabel breathed, recalling her dream: the Rubberman taking off his mask and revealing her half-brother. But she still didn’t understand how Michael was connected to all of this! If anything, she only had more questions!

“It’s time to go,” Shachath said. “You have an interview to get to.”


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Though Isabel had only been in Hell for a few short moments, an hour had passed in the realm of the living. She never bothered to understand the rules of time when it came to Descensum; they were too damn confusing. Sometimes a few days in Hell would be a few minutes in the realm of the living, or vice versa. Trying to understand it would be like her trying to understand quantum physics with only a grammar book for reference.

Thankfully, she would not need to understand quantum physics any time soon. No, she would just need to get out of her interview alive. Easy enough.

Isabel opened her bedroom door to discover Ms. Meade with a raised fist about to knock.

Ms. Meade lowered her hand. “Mr. Langdon has asked for you.”

“My interview?”

Ms. Meade nodded and turned to lead Isabel to Venable’s office (not that Isabel needed help; she knew exactly where that office was).

“Have you had your interview?” Isabel asked before Ms. Meade could knock on the door.

“No.”

“Oh.” Disappointment settled into the fine lines on Isabel’s face.

“Hoping I could give you an idea of what to look forward to? You’re better off asking one of your friends.”

“What, you mean like Coco or Gallant?” Isabel scoffed at the very idea that they were friends. “God, no. I’ll lose my last two brain cells if I talk to any of them.”

Ms. Meade knew that feeling well. Helping Ms. Venable oversee the outpost had done nothing for her IQ, that was for sure. Why was it that some of the dumbest people were the ones rich enough to live? The only hope now was the Sanctuary. “I guess you’re on your own then.”

Isabel sighed. “Yeah, I guess I am.” And after Ms. Meade knocked on the door and opened it for Isabel, she truly was on her own. On her own with Michael Langdon, whoever the fuck he was.

She walked in to find Michael standing in front of the fireplace, looking pensive. The door closed behind her and Michael turned to face her. He smiled, but it was not warm. It was not welcoming. Nothing about him was welcoming.

“Take a seat,” Michael instructed, gesturing to the chair where all of the victims have sat and argued why they were the best choice to go to the Sanctuary; all mindless drivel. This interview would be a welcomed change. “I must say, I have been looking forward to this interview.”

“Then why not have it sooner?”

“You don’t know much about savoring a moment, do you?”

“You don’t know much about wanting answers immediately, do you?”

Oh, but he did. Michael remembered being young and desperate for answers. He had been forced to wait, and learned patience, something that was quite handy for the end of the world. He smirked, admiring the sass for now, though he knew it would quickly become intolerable if she kept it up.

Isabel noticed her file as on the desk. So he had read over it; had a vague idea of who she was. But there was so much that she knew wasn’t in there. And she didn’t have a file on him that she could check. “Who are you?” she asked, taking advantage of the beat of silence.

“This is your interview, not mine.”

“You have an unfair advantage.” Isabel regarded her file. “I’m just making the playing field even.”

“So this is a game now?”

“Is it?”

The two held each other’s gazes, Isabel defiant and Michael trying to solve her like a Rubix Cube.

He sighed, sitting down across from Isabel and propping his elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. “Alright then Miss Noble, you may ask some questions. But you will give me honest answers when I ask you.”

“Only if you answer honestly.” It was only fair, and when playing against the devil’s son, Isabel wanted everything as fair as possible.

So she asked her questions. She asked his name (just to double check and make sure that yes, it was Langdon and always was Langdon and always would be Langdon), she asked what the Cooperative was, she asked where he had been staying this whole time, and what the Sanctuary was. He answered without complaint. Now it was her turn.

“What are your powers?” he asked, and Isabel nearly choked on the breath she was taking. He chuckled at her reaction. There was no way she could deny anything after that. “Oh come on Miss Noble, I can practically smell the witch on you.”

Isabel pressed her lips together. Motherfucker. Perhaps this was alright. If he knew that she was a witch, then maybe he wouldn’t be too quick to try and hurt her if he felt inclined to hurt people (she could only assume he was, being the Antichrist and all). “Descensum,” she finally answered. But she had a question of her own up her sleeve. She didn’t come with it prepared, but after listening to him talk and watching the way he moved, and putting her dreams together and what Shachath told her, it formulated in her mind. “Is Tate Langdon your dad?”  
d  
It as Michael’s turn to be surprise. He knew who she was. He had gone to the house; had met her mother. He didn’t expect her to connect any dots about him; he hadn’t given her anything to connect! “Clever girl,” he commended grudgingly. “How did you know?”

“How did you know?”

Michael rolled his eyes. Her answering his questions with questions grew old already. “Not important.”

“I’d disagree.”

“And why is that?”

Isabel hesitated a moment. She supposed she couldn’t keep all of her secrets. It was just the matter of not wanting to admit it out loud. Saying it out loud would mean confirming who the Antichrist was to her, and she almost didn’t want to admit it. “Tate’s my brother,” she finally said. Well, half-brother technically, but brother all the same.

Michael was surprised by this, but almost pleasantly so. Now here was an interesting twist. The young woman before him was not only a witch connected to death, but his aunt. How fitting. “I see it now. You look very much like your mother.”

The color drained from Isabel’s face. “You know Constance?” she asked, the words almost catching in her throat. The idea of Constance interacting with the Antichrist made her sick to her stomach. When would that have even happened? Isabel didn’t remember Michael ever coming by the house. Really the only time he could have come by without Isabel knowing was…

Isabel swallowed, her throat going dry. That one week she had left… the week Constance killed herself…

“A story for another time,” Michael promised. “This is, after all, your interview for the Sanctuary.”

“And will I be going?”

Michael’s expression softened, and he didn’t seem intimidating anymore. He resembled Tate very much: a sweet-looking boy who unfortunately harbored evil within him. It should scare her, but it didn’t. That in itself was more worrying than the Antichrist. “Of course,” he answered. “What kind of cruel soul would I be if I didn’t let my Aunt Isabel come along?”

Isabel shuddered at the phrase. “Okay, never, ever call me that again,” she said firmly. “Isabel is just fine.” Aunt Isabel? No, especially not when he was clearly older than her. Speaking of which, how the hell was he older than her? If he was conceived Halloween night in 2012, then he should be a little boy still! Instead, he was a man who was in his late twenties.

“Fine then,” he agreed.

“Who else is going to the Sanctuary?” Isabel asked, suddenly extremely curious. She leaned forward with interest.

There was a beat, and within that single moment, it became clear to Isabel that he didn’t have an answer. Either he didn’t know yet, or no one else is going.

Still, Michael did say, “I have many things to consider. Notes to go over and such. I’ll have a final answer shortly.”

It was bullshit, but Isabel wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that at least someone else would be going. Why? She had been out for herself this whole time, so why suddenly want to save everyone? Guilt over Stu? Maybe.

Isabel stood up from her seat. “I think this interview is over then.” She had her answers. She would be safe.

“You have no other questions?”

“Stories for another time,” she said. “We’ll catch up when you get the chance.” They would have a lot to talk about.

She left the office. As soon as the door closed behind her, she felt both uneasy and assured. Yes, that was the Antichrist, and Shachath had warned her about him. But that was her brother’s son… somehow. She was still a little confused on how a ghost had a kid.

A small part of Isabel didn’t want to believe Michael was completely evil, even with the title of Antichrist. He wasn’t particularly nice, but it was rather difficult for her to wrap her head around the fact that the man who brought the end of days was her nephew. She didn’t want to believe that she was related to someone so vile. And really, other than cause nuclear fallout, he hadn’t done anything to show he was dangerous. Not until a few nights after her interview.

There were no blood curdling screams in the night. There was nothing in the night. Yet Isabel woke up with a cold chill. It was that same feeling she got when Stu was killed. But surely that didn’t mean anything this time around?

Except it did. She knew it did; she could feel it. Isabel kicked off the duvet. The floor was cold against her bare feet, but it was nothing in comparison to the sensation in her spine and lungs. It was as if she had inhaled death. She was terrified of what she might find, but pursued this instinctual feeling.

What she found was something she never expected.

Evie’s bedroom door was opened ajar. Isabel peered in and saw Gallant kneeling on his grandmother’s bed. Isabel nearly walked away, prepared to dismiss the scene as just super fucking weird. But then she saw that he was kneeling over Evie, who wasn’t moving. Her eyes were opened wide in shock.

Isabel took a daring step into the room, and when Gallant turned to face her, she saw his look of surprise that very much resembled his grandmother. That was when Isabel saw the blood and the knife.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t wait for Gallant to say anything. Isabel left the room, hoping beyond hope that Gallant wouldn’t follow her and try to stab her as well.

In her heart, she knew that this couldn’t really his fault completely. Everyone was fine and yes, annoyed with each other but at peace all the same and suddenly the Antichrist comes along and now someone else was dead?

Isabel went straight to Michael’s room. She walked right in without preamble. “What the fuck did you do?” she demanded, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

He looked up from his laptop (which Isabel didn’t even register at the moment). “Knocking is called a common courtesy for a reason.”

“What did you do?” Isabel repeated. She paused, realizing that Michael had a computer. Seeing the technology stunned her; she had been living like a wretched Brontë character for so long. “Are you watching Game of Thrones?”

“A guilty pleasure. Shame they never got past season seven,” Michael lamented.

Isabel was going to point out that if he wanted season eight so badly, he could have not brought on the end of days. However, she didn’t because she needed to focus. “Evie’s dead. Gallant killed her.”

Michael shut his laptop, setting it aside. “I hardly see how I had anything to do with that.”

“Because you’re the fucking Antichrist!”

“And when something bad happens, it’s automatically my fault?”

“Well, was this your fault?”

Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he relaxed once more on his bed and picked up his laptop, resuming his watching. That was a good enough answer for Isabel.

Horror mixed with despair as Isabel left his room, now fully aware of just how wrong she was about him. He was her nephew, but he was the Antichrist first and foremost.

Michael Langdon needed to die.

“Miss Noble,” Ms. Venable said sharply when the young woman almost ran into her in the hallway.

“Wilhelmina,” Isabel sputtered in surprise, partially snapping out of her trance.

“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Venable raised her chin, giving Isabel the chance to rectify her mistake. However, she was quick to realize that would not happen as Isabel had a glazed look in her eyes still, clearly lost in thought. “You’re troubled.”

Yes, of fucking course she was troubled! But Isabel couldn’t articulate the sarcastic response. “Evie’s dead.”

“She is.” And that situation was currently being handled; Gallant was being dragged away to the belly of the outpost for punishment. But only a whipping because really, he just did some of the work for Wilhelmina. One less body to worry about. She would get rid of Gallant at some point, for sure. But let him suffer first.

“It’s Michael’s fault,” Isabel said, her voice like an egg that was tapped against the side of pan: cracked but not broken yet. “I don’t know how, but I know it was him.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“I know my family.” Antichrist or not, Michael was Tate’s son, and while Isabel did have trouble ignoring how sweet her brother had been to her, he was violent and Michael was that same kind of violent. Oh god, what if he just murdered everyone in the outpost?

Wilhelmina cocked her head to the side, intrigued. Family? Clearly that phrase had slipped past Isabel’s lips without her thinking twice, but oh how wonderful that it did. Family meant safety. Wilhelmina had been told by Michael that she didn’t pass the test; she would not be going to the Sanctuary. But here was someone who would be.

Isabel didn’t even realize she was trembling until Ms. Venable put a hand on her shoulder. She held Ms. Venable’s gaze, as if that would steady her. Her lips parted as if to speak, but words wouldn’t come. They didn’t need to.

“You’re safe,” Ms. Venable said, and Isabel felt herself actually relax, false, comforting warmth blooming in her chest.

Yes, Isabel was safe. She would be safe, and go to the Sanctuary. She was just the ticket Wilhelmina needed.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

The trauma of Evie’s death passed quickly. Everyone had the same thought: one less person to worry about. Even Isabel found that her sadness didn’t linger. Now that the Sanctuary was in play, she understood the rules. And if it ever got out that she was guaranteed a spot at the Sanctuary, she knew she wouldn’t be safe.

One less person to worry about…

 _Dear Moira_ ,

Those words rested on the page of her notebook, but Isabel didn’t know what to put after that. Reality settled in for her. No matter how many letters she addressed to her best friend, Moira would never see them. And there was also the fact that the hissing coming from her closet was distracting her to no end.

Wait, what the fuck?

Isabel stared at her closet, knowing that she needed to open it and investigate, but desperately didn’t want to. Maybe she could ignore it? However, she knew deep down that whatever it was, it wasn’t going away.

“Okay, it’s fine,” she muttered to herself unconvincingly.

She stood up from her bed and went to her bedroom door, knowing better than to just go straight to the closet. Telekinesis wasn’t a particularly strong suit for her, but she could perform little feats, such as getting books off of an impossibly high shelf and opening a closet door.

With her hand raised, Isabel hesitated a moment more to try and see if she would wake up from whatever dream this was. There was no waking; there was no dreaming. She flicked her wrist and the closet door swung open.

A long, black snake wormed out, hissing loudly. Then another, and another; there were so many of them! They began slithering towards her.

Not giving it a second thought, Isabel left her room and slammed the door shut to trap the snakes. Another flick of her wrist locked the door from the inside. She wasn’t terrified of snakes like many people were, but she was pretty scared of them when they just suddenly came out of her closet.

“Hey,” Mallory said as she walked down the hall. “You okay?”

“Snakes.”

“What?”

“There are snakes. Snakes in my room. They just came out of the closet. I have closet snakes.”

Mallory found it difficult to process what Isabel was saying. Closet snakes? “Um, what the fuck?” But then she heard the hissing. Oh, closet snakes. “Let’s um… let’s….” She didn’t know. What did one do when confronted with closet snakes?

“Ms. Meade?” Isabel suggested.

“Yeah… yeah that sounds good.”

The two young women turned in search of Ms. Meade. It didn’t take long to find her. It was telling her the situation coherently that proved to be difficult.

“Closet snakes,” Isabel said just as she had told Mallory.

“There are closet snakes,” Mallory concurred.

The two of them might as well have had three heads each. Ms. Meade stared at them with confusion, trying to interpret what “closet snakes” could be slang for.

Isabel saw Ms. Meade’s irises twitch as if in REM sleep. It was quick; she could easily dismiss it as her imagination. But it reminded her of that one time she saw Ms. Meade twitch at the dining table. It could be brushed off as normal but was more… mechanical.

She didn’t know why, but in that moment she attempted Concilium on Ms. Meade. She focused, and felt her magic course through her. She tried and tried, but she wasn’t reaching Ms. Meade. Not because Ms. Meade was particularly strong… there was no way to properly explain it, and Isabel would never find the right words. But it was if she was trying to perform Concilium on a brick wall.

Ms. Meade frowned as she watched Isabel. “Are you ill?”

Mallory looked at Isabel and gasped. “Oh shit, you’re bleeding.”

Isabel brought hand to her nose. Sure enough, blood trickled down; she had overexerted herself trying to use magic against Ms. Meade. “I’m fine,” she insisted, cupping her hand under her nose to catch the blood. “I… yeah, I need to go. Closet snakes,” she reiterated before walking away to leave Mallory to explain the situation.

Gushing blood now, Isabel made her way to Michael’s room. Once again, she didn’t knock. She waved her free hand and the door swung open.

“Closet snakes, really?!”

“I see Derek Noble died before he could teach you manners,” Michael drawled as he stood up from his desk and walked over to her, annoyed that she had burst into his room yet again. He watched her bloody expression darken and before he had time to react, her knuckles connected with his nose. Warm blood now poured from his nose. Michael stared at her with wide eyes, lips parted. “You just punched me!” he exclaimed when he found words again.

“Don’t talk shit about my dad!”

“You punched me!”

“Don’t talk shit, and you won’t get punched. And don’t put snakes in my closet!”

The two were at a stand still, noses bloody, tension high and blood pressure higher.

Finally, Michael said, “I didn’t put snakes in your closet. You cannot go automatically blaming me for everything that goes wrong.”

“But did you bring snakes into the outpost?”

A hesitation. An answer. “It isn’t as if I walked into your room and put them there,” Michael defended. “I tried sending them away. I will admit, I may have miscalculated in my dismissal. But I’m sure you have sent Ms. Meade to handle it.”

“How did you―?”

“It’s why your nose is bloody isn’t it? You tried performing Concilium on her.” Michael gave a devilish smirk, his blood starting to dry and crust on his upper lip already. “You know, I thought I had gotten rid of all of the witches, but I am so very glad you survived.”

“Why can’t I do Concilium on Ms. Meade?” Isabel asked, ignoring Michael’s statement.

He chuckled and ran his hand over his face; the blood vanished. “It will all make sense soon enough, dear Auntie.” He then ran a gentle hand over Isabel’s face, and the mess disappeared without a trace. “Half the fun is watching you piece the puzzle together.”

Isabel shuddered, Michael’s childlike devilishness making her uneasy. A mere boy who was given too much power and couldn’t control it.

“It will soon be over,” Michael assured her, cupping her chin. “This nightmarish fantasy will be gone. You and I will go to the Sanctuary and this will be nothing more than a bad dream.”

Clichéd villain line; Isabel tried not to laugh because really, it wasn’t funny. It was just absolutely ridiculous. Antichrists, closet snakes, the Sanctuary… yes, it did all seem like a bad dream. Perhaps one day she would wake up from it.

Michael continued, “You’re more like me than you realize, Isabel. You have darkness within you, I can tell.”

“I can’t be the only one with darkness.”

“You’d be surprised. True darkness requires a certain depth of character, but everyone else is much too shallow for any kind of meaningful negativity.” Except for Ms. Venable. Michael sensed she was capable of great and terrible things, if only her own ego wouldn’t get in the way, hence why she would need to be eliminated. All in due time.

Isabel shut her eyes and took a deep breath. Michael was infuriating. When she opened her eyes, her hands were clenched into tight fists. “You may be my nephew, Michael, but you’re on thin fucking ice,” she warned.

Michael kept a stoic expression as Isabel left his room, and as soon as she was gone, he smirked. She was definitely entertaining, and not as strong as she thought, hence why she wasn’t a threat. She could be strong with some guidance. Her will was weaker than she realized.

 

But at the moment Isabel was under the impression that she was capable of taking care of herself. She punched the Antichrist; she could handle anything! Not really, but the punch had given her a boost of confidence that was desperately needed after the end of the world.

She didn’t return to her room, not after the closet snakes. She remained in the library and studied another book from the top shelf, doing her best to interpret the spells. It was difficult, but at least it was time consuming, and she was preoccupied until dinnertime.

Evie’s chair had been removed from the table. No one complained.

One less person to worry about…

People were talking, but as per usual, Isabel wasn’t listening. She was staring at Ms. Meade as she approached the table with a trolley. Isabel’s stomach turned when she realized the scene was playing out almost exactly like when Stu was killed and served. Oh god, they were being fed Evie! Isabel felt lightheaded; she couldn’t handle anymore cannibalism.

No, Evie was not the soup de jour, thankfully. It was chopped up closet snakes.

The Purples who were still alive all gave each other an uneasy look. Unknowingly eating Stu was one thing, knowingly eating snakes was another.

“Are these snakes venomous?” Coco asked as she toyed with the soup, scooping it up with her spoon and letting it drop back down into the bowl. “We’re not gonna like… die, are we?”

“You can’t die from ingesting venom,” Isabel said as she too played with the soup. “If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous. If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. So unless you’ve got cuts in your throat or stomach, you’re fine.” Despite her own words of assurance, Isabel was hesitant. Snake soup wasn’t something she was ever eager to try. Perhaps she could just have the broth? It wouldn’t be as filling, but her stomach had shrunk so much at that point, it didn’t strike her as a problem.

Before she had the opportunity to contemplate, a loud hissing came from all of the bowls and the large pot. The snakes that were once in pieces were suddenly whole and very much alive. As the one in Isabel’s bowl started to slither out, she instinctively waved her hand and the bowl was flung across the room, hitting the wall and shattering into pieces as everyone else scattered from the table.

“Ew, ew, ew!” Gallant sobbed. “Oh god, I almost ate it!”

Isabel was speechless. She was frozen to her chair, staring wide eyed at the spot on the wall where her bowl had hit. She could feel Ms. Venable staring at her, curious and unnerved, but Isabel ignored it. Her mind was reeling, the snakes falling from the table onto the floor.

Michael had done this. He had to have. Only magic could have brought the snakes back to life, and Isabel hadn’t cast a spell. Her stomach twisted as the horrific image of a living, wriggling snake in her stomach entered her mind and refused to leave.

Isabel shoved her chair away from the table and left the room, holding back her vomit.

 

The corridors were a blur; she didn’t even know if she was headed in the direction of her room. All she wanted to do was slam the door shut on the world and sleep for one hundred years. Sleeping Beauty didn’t realize how lucky she was. There was no madness in slumber. Perhaps if she did fall asleep for one hundred years, the world would be a safe place to live in again.

Or perhaps she wasn’t meant to live at all.

She grew lightheaded, and leaned against a door. Breathing deeply, she slid down to the floor and brought her knees to her chest.

“Fuck!” she yelled, her voice catching painfully in her throat as her stomach twisted from nausea and hunger.

Isabel clawed at her dress in frustration, tearing the fabric as she stamped her feet like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. And why shouldn’t she? She had every right to throw a tantrum! Not only was her life completely vaporized, but her nephew was the fucking Antichrist! Snakes, murder, cannibalism, listening to the nonsensical drivel of these entitled assholes day in and day out; being stuck inside for over a year… No sunlight. No fresh air. No hope.

“Fuck!” she screamed again, the word tearing itself from her vocal chords with desperation.

Solution? She could leave the outpost. She could expose herself to radiation and possibly die. But it wouldn’t be quick, not at this point. It would be slow, and painful.

She could perform Descensum and just never leave Hell. If she stayed long enough, she would die. Shachath would have no choice but to take her. Hell could have her soul, and she would forever be rid of herself of this place. But would she ever be rid of Michael? He was the Antichrist; going to Hell might ensure that she was stuck with him forever.

Isabel had such hopes about him. She could see now that she was stupid. Bringing the snakes back to life was a cruel trick, and that was all it was: a trick. Their survival was a game to him, and now she was sure that now more than ever, Michael would need to be stopped. It didn’t matter if he would take her to the Sanctuary. He had hurt her trust, and she was convinced he had done something to Constance. He took everything from her.

“While I don’t appreciate cussing, I suppose I can let it slide just this once,” Ms. Venable said, approaching Isabel. She herself looked a little pale and shaken, but her eyes were bright with determination. What happened in the dining room was a curious set of events. The snakes coming back to life, Isabel throwing her bowl across the room without even touching it… “You’re like him, aren’t you?”

Isabel’s blood was replaced with anger. She stood up in a rage. How dare Ms. Venable make such a statement! She was not like Michael. She was nothing like him! Yes, she had magic but she was not a creation of darkness. She was not an innocent person by any means, but she was not evil. Her hand flinched as she briefly considered raising it to force Ms. Venable against the wall. However, that wouldn’t exactly prove the point that she wasn’t like Michael. So instead, she took a menacing step towards the woman, acting braver than she actually was.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” Isabel threatened in a low voice, and for a moment it was as if she truly was in control of the situation.

Then the illusion was shattered. Ms. Venable smirked, and used her free hand to push Isabel against the wall by her throat. She kept her hand there, her grip not tight enough to choke but absolutely tight enough to be uncomfortable.

“And don’t you dare ever threaten me again, Miss Noble.” Ms. Venable’s hand left Isabel’s throat, and Isabel’s heart beat quickened when Ms. Venable’s hand trailed downward. But it was a fleeting moment, and the hand came to rest on her cheek. “Don’t you remember what I said before about a relationship with me?”

“Far better ally than enemy,” Isabel recited.

“Correct. And I believe you need an ally now more than ever.” Ms. Venable leaned in close, and Isabel could smell the faint hint of midnight fleur again. “The two of us deserve to go to the Sanctuary. But Mr. Langdon has made it clear that I will not be joining.” She took a moment to relish in the heartbreak Isabel tried hiding. “You and I both know that no one else deserves to go to the Sanctuary except for the two of us, and Ms. Meade.”

“If Michael dies, we can all go to the Sanctuary.”

That was part of the idea, yes. But Ms. Venable wouldn’t be satisfied until everyone else was dead. “And do you really think the others won’t put up a fight, even with Mr. Langdon out of the way? No, they will all fight until only one of them is left. But you and I…”

“Us?”

“We could make it out of here. Build a new life in the Sanctuary. But I need you, Miss Noble.” She spoke softly now, tempting Isabel. Her hand came to rest on Isabel’s hip. Ms. Venable didn’t have a plan in place. She didn’t quite know how to use Isabel to her advantage, but she needed the young woman on her side; a weapon against Michael Langdon. “Your dress is torn… shall we get you out of it?”

Isabel nodded meekly a few hundred times. “Yes, yeah I’ll go do that right now.”

She started to walk off to go to her room, but was stopped when Ms. Venable grabbed her arm. “And just where are you going? My bedchamber is right here.”

 


	19. Chapter Eighteen

There was no talking, and the heavy breathing had subsided long ago. There was only silence as Isabel rested next to Wilhelmina, who lay on her side as if she couldn’t face her.

A million thoughts raced through Isabel’s mind: were people wondering where they were? Would anyone make the connection that the two of them were missing at the same time? Would they be able to do this again? Did she want to?

Yes, of course she wanted to. It was the first time in eighteen months that Isabel had felt like a person; had forgotten that the world was a nuclear wasteland beyond the walls of the outpost. It was a feeling she never wanted to let go.

Absentmindedly, Isabel reached out, fingertips lightly touching Wilhelmina.

Wilhelmina flinched as she felt Isabel trace the curve of her spine, but soon relaxed. It was such a foreign sensation; no malice, just curiosity and affection. It was so very odd… Wilhelmina turned over to face Isabel. “What a strange girl you are.”

“Why?”

There was a deliberate pause. Wilhelmina was not searching for the right words. Oh no, she knew exactly what to say. “Flung out of space.”

Just as expected, Isabel’s eyes lit up at the literary reference. She recognized it immediately as a quote from Patricia Highsmith’s _The Price of Salt_ , a book she adored (and now sorely missed). And of course the movie (not directed by Kenny Ortega, thank god), that used the phrase twice, the second time made more adoring with the addition of “my angel” when Carol addressed Therese, the both of them in love with each other.

“I’m not an angel,” Isabel said quietly. No, she couldn’t be. She knew Hell existed, and she was absolutely going there. She had manipulated people, she had killed people both directly and indirectly… She was not good and pure.

“No, you certainly are not. But you are other worldly, aren’t you?” Wilhelmina brushed her fingers along Isabel’s cheek. “Something within you is different. So not an angel, but not entirely human. What are you, Isabel?”

Her heart fluttered hearing Wilhelmina saying her name; it had never sounded so melodic before.

“A witch,” Isabel admitted, and it felt so damn good. Finally, she could admit to someone what she really was. She was not an angel, she was not just a human, and she was not an antichrist. She was a witch, and for the first time, the admission didn’t feel terrible.

Magic was inherited from the mother and while things had been decent between her and Constance, admitting that she was a witch was admitting her connection with her mother. And yes, Isabel hated how much she missed Constance. Adoption aside, Constance Langdon was hardly a good woman.

She was getting lost in thought. Isabel shut her eyes tight, as if to shut out the thoughts before she drifted too far away. She opened her eyes after a deep breath, and watched as Wilhelmina mulled over the word, as if she had never heard it before.

“A witch,” Wilhelmina repeated. “Well, in another life I never would have believed it. But considering all I’ve witnessed, I can hardly say I’m surprised.” In fact, she was quite delighted about. Magic was strange; a power she wasn’t familiar with. But it would surely give her the leverage she craved. “A witch,” she said once again, her lips forming a small smile.

“I don’t believe it myself sometimes.” Isabel was glad that Wilhelmina believed her. She was glad she didn’t have to fight about who she was because she knew that doing so would just make her doubt herself more. But having someone believe her made her feel oddly proud about it.

“Strange girl,” Wilhelmina murmured again, and then sat up. Though she found that part of her wanted to remain in bed, she knew that she shouldn’t linger too long. Besides, she had what she needed: information, and Isabel wrapped around her finger. “Help me dress.”

And just as the the last hair was put into place, and the last lace was tied, the sirens went off. Wilhelmina frowned, trying to hide her panic though it was apparent in her eyes. Mr. Langdon didn’t say he was bringing anyone else from the Cooperative. So who the hell was here?

“Are you alright?” Isabel asked.

She placed a hand on Wilhelmina’s hip and Wilhelmina closed her eyes for a moment, reveling in the warmth that bloomed in her chest. She pulled herself out of it; she couldn’t let herself fall into the trap she had created. She turned to face Isabel, and gave her a reassuring smirk. “It’s all under control,” she insisted, cupping Isabel’s cheek.

Isabel leaned close to steal a kiss, but Ms. Venable pulled away already and left the room. She pursed her lips, trying to imagine what set off the alarms. But she couldn’t even begin to imagine what had arrived. She never would have fathomed that the Cooperative, under Michael Langdon’s orders, delivered apples from the Sanctuary.

Even when she was staring at the fresh fruit herself, Ms. Venable could barely comprehend it. It had been so long since she had seen real food that wasn’t a person or a snake. The temptation was too strong; she bit into one. It was crisp and sweet. “Exquisite,” she all but moaned before handing it over to Ms. Meade for her to try.

“It must be from the Sanctuary,” Ms. Meade concluded, taking a tentative bite as she was paranoid about radiation. But damn was it ever so delicious. “They’re showing what’s waiting for us.”

“For Miss Noble,” Ms. Venable corrected. “According to Michael Langdon. And perhaps a few others. But not myself.”

Ms. Meade stared at the glimmering apples, her mind formulating a scheme of her own. “Well, he can’t bring anyone if they’re dead.” She looked to Ms. Venable, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And he certainly can’t bring anyone if he himself is dead.”

Ms. Venable’s shock at such a devious suggestion quickly transformed into agreement with a grin. “You are quite right. Perhaps a poison? And as the snake tempted Eve, we shall tempt our vapid residents. They will never be able to resist these.”

“We’ll just need to make sure that they all eat them at the same time.”

“A party,” Ms. Venable said, the answer coming to her immediately. “Give them one last night of fun before their last breaths.” Yes, a party. It was absolutely perfect. It would bring everyone together into the same room. A bobbing-for-apples station perhaps?

“And the poison?” Ms. Meade asked. “We still have the snakes locked away, but those are venomous, not poisonous; that won’t do us much good.”

“Leave it to me.” The gears in Ms. Venable’s mind were turning now. She knew exactly who could turn the venom into poison.

Isabel sat at her vanity, doing her best to brush through the tangled mess of her hair. Perhaps she could get Gallant to do something with it: style it, or at least make it more presentable. Yes, he murdered his grandmother, but that didn’t mean he was any less skilled.

She stopped brushing her hair. Was this really what the remnants of life had come to: excusing murder because really, nothing could be done about it?

It made her crave sanity. Would this madness cease? It would when she reached the Sanctuary.

If she reached the Sanctuary. Michael guaranteed she would, but if the others found out, who was to say that she wouldn’t end up like Evie?

Isabel knew she wasn’t being rational. Nothing about this was rational. Rationality blew up with the nuclear bombs. If she wanted things to make sense, she needed to get away from the outpost. At the moment, there was only one way to do that.

She walked over to her bed, and lay down on it. Hands resting on her stomach, she closed her eyes and recited what was essentially the only spell she knew. When she opened her eyes, she was right where she expected: strapped down to a cot in a cold cell.

“You wish for things to make sense and therefore come to the place that makes the least amount of sense,” Shachath recounted, standing in the corner of the cell. She came over to the bed and undid the straps.

“Maybe I really am mad,” Isabel remarked, massaging her skin. The leather was so harsh…

“You can’t stay here.”

“But I don’t know what else to do.” Isabel swung her legs around so that she was sitting on the edge of the cot, bare feet planted on the cold floor. “I think…” She stopped. Could she really say it out loud? After all these trials and tribulations, living underground for… what, nearly two years now? “It’s a Hobson’s Choice. Do I live in my personal hell, or hell on Earth? And right now, personal hell is looking pretty ideal.”

Yes, she would be perfectly fine staying right here in this hellish Briarcliff Manor. The Sanctuary hardly seemed worth it. Living every day in fear of being killed… and as far as she knew, there were no other people on Earth. Isabel didn’t think she could handle living the rest of her life with this handful of people.

“And you’re sure about this?” Shachath asked, tilting her head to the side. She did believe that Isabel was willing to give up her life right then and there. But the thought wasn’t rational. She was acting on impulse.

Was she sure about this? Isabel thought coming here would clear her mind, but she still felt greatly confused. What was the right choice? Could she bring herself to kill more people to survive? “I just don’t know what to do…” She looked up at Shachath, completely hopeless. “Please, I need your help.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t need me at all. You already know what choice to make. And when the time comes, you just need to believe that everything will work out.”

Isabel frowned, not understanding Shachath at all. She knew the Angel of Death could be cryptic, but this was ridiculous. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to clarify like just a little bit.”

“Just play along with what happens. Nothing will make sense until all of the pieces fall into place. But when they do, the choice will be in your hands and you will know exactly what to do. Just believe that it will work.”

“Thank you, that explanation does jack shit for me.”

But Shachath was gone; vanished. Isabel was alone, without any explanation about what the hell the angel was talking about. _Nothing will make sense until all of the pieces fall into place_ … She supposed if that was the case, then she would do just that: wait until all the pieces fell into place, whatever that meant.

She needed to get back. Isabel had a feeling that she still had plenty of time in hell, but she needed to get back if things were going to start making sense. She shut her eyes and willed herself back to her body, and when she opened her eyes again, there was a sharp rap at her door.

“Come in,” she said, sitting up.

Ms. Venable walked in, appearing composed but disturbed. “I wish I could come bearing better news,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

“What do you mean?” Isabel asked. She frowned, not liking that Ms. Venable was on edge. She was the voice of reason in this place. If she was on edge, then something was wrong.

“The others… there’s a plan, formed by that Stevens woman. A mutiny; a plan to overthrow Mr. Langdon and the rest of us. Her son, Miss Vanderbilt, and that hair stylist are all in on it.”

“The rest of us?” What did that have to do with her? Why was she being targeted? That didn’t make sense!

“They must have learned about your alliance with Mr. Langdon. You are as much of a threat to them as he is. They will keep us away from the Sanctuary, and I have no doubt that they will not hesitate to resort to murder.” Ms. Venable sat beside Isabel and placed a loving hand on Isabel’s cheek. “We cannot let them hurt us.”

 _Us_.

Isabel’s heart soared at that. But this still wasn’t making complete sense. Were the others even capable of staging such a thing? _Just play a long with what happens_ … “Do you have a plan?” she asked, knowing deep down that this was exactly what Shachath was talking about.

Ms. Venable smiled warmly, as if touched that Isabel was so willing to help. It was something she had been counting on, of course. She was certain that if she asked Isabel to step outside in the contaminated air, she would. “Actually, there is something I had in mind.”


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Isabel felt hungry. It was such a relief to feel hungry after all this time. After Ms. Venable explained her plan, the pieces slowly started falling into place and Isabel was relieved. Finally, some sense! She wasn’t all too pleased but she wasn’t going to argue. Whatever happened, it would all be fine. And with this assurance, she was finally hungry.

Of course, it wasn’t mealtime, and what she was brewing should not be consumed.

She stared down at the book she had snatched from the top shelf. Suspiciously, it was in English, meaning there was no risk of accidental mistranslation. There was no way for this plan to fail. One could argue that there was always risk of human error, but Isabel would disagree. In fact, it was human error she was counting on. The desire for real food instead of accepting what they knew to be safe would be too strong.

She was locked in a sanitation room where no one except Ms. Venable or Ms. Meade could find her. It was unnervingly bright, the walls and floors made of white tile. The door was locked, and Isabel felt incredibly claustrophobic. So, she focused on her work.

She narrowed her eyes, and then picked up the book and held it at a considerable distance in front of her face. Her eyesight was steadily getting worse. She had left her reading glasses back home in the flurry of packing (and because she hardly ever used them) so they were long gone. It was fine for a while but now that she was actually trying to focus on a spell, Isabel found that it was more difficult than before. Hopefully the Sanctuary had an optometrist.

Not that she would be going… or maybe she would be. Isabel was still rather confused about what would happen after all of this. She knew what would happen when everyone bobbed for apples. She knew what she was meant to do up until that point and during. But afterward? No fucking clue. All she knew was that she had to trust the Angel of Death.

Would this be enough to take down Michael, though? That was one of her main concerns. Creating poison was one thing. Creating a poison that would take down the Antichrist? Was he immune to poison? As Antichrist, he probably was. Goddammit.

Still, Isabel went on making the potion. She added the snake venom to the pot (which had nothing else more than water, spit, and a tiny bit of blood in it) and muttered an incantation.

Cordelia would be proud of her, Isabel thought.

When the Supreme was just the headmistress of Miss Robichaux’s, she spent so much time in the greenhouse concocting potions. Isabel didn’t have many fond memories of the academy, but that was one.

There was a click, and the metal door swung open. Ms. Meade stood in the doorway, not saying anything at first. She took the time to study Isabel. Ms. Venable hadn’t explained everything, and Ms. Meade had no idea how this young woman was able to transform the snake venom into a potent poison, but she knew better than to question Ms. Venable on this plan. It was going to work. They all just needed to believe it would work.

“Finished?” Ms. Meade asked.

“Yes,” Isabel answered, standing up from the floor. Blood dripped from her left ring finger; the finger she had jabbed for the potion. Before she stepped out of the room though, she blurted out, “What are you?” It had been bothering her all this time. The mechanical twitches, Isabel’s inability to use Concilium on her…

However, Ms. Meade seemed unaware about what the young woman was referring to. She frowned at Isabel’s rude question. “I suggest we act like you did not ask that,” she said crisply, pleased to see Isabel’s cheeks color in embarrassment. “Now go on, you have a party to get ready for.”

“I’m not going.”

“You have to. The others will be suspicious if you don’t.”

“But I don’t even have anything to make a costume.” She wasn’t going to show up to a masquerade looking like she did every day. Not that it mattered much, but still. She didn’t want to be hearing Coco and Gallant’s ridicule all night. Everyone else brought material things that could be transformed. Isabel hardly saw how her copy of The Matinee Massacre was going to help.

“Go to your room. You might be surprised.”

Isabel started going back to her room when her path crossed with Mallory. Isabel felt warmth bloom in her chest upon seeing a kind face. “Mallory,” she breathed, pleased beyond belief.

“Izzy…” Mallory regarded the young woman before her, and frowned. Isabel looked like she was hyped up on Adderall. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah… well, no. I mean, I’m as okay as I can be, all things considering. Are you going to the party?” Isabel asked, changing the subject. She immediately regretted asking. The party was dangerous. Should she warn Mallory not to eat the apples? She feared what would happen if someone didn’t eat the poison. They would probably be killed some other way; they would have to be.

Mallory halfheartedly shrugged her shoulders. “I guess. I don’t really have anything but I’m sure Coco’s got some scraps she can spare. You’re going, right?”

Isabel nodded eagerly though her expression was grim. “Yup.”

Her expression was concerning, but Mallory decided it was best not to question too much. Whatever Isabel was going through, Mallory didn’t want to make it worse. Perhaps the party would take her mind off of things. “Well, maybe I’ll see you there then.”

She smiled, and Isabel returned it in a weaker fashion. Isabel walked past Mallory to her room and then stopped for a moment and turned back around. “Hey Mallory?”

“Yeah?”

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t warn her. Mallory would have to eat the apple. She would eat it like everyone else. “We’re all in this together,” Isabel said, her grin a little stronger as she gave Mallory a message disguised as a High School Musical meme. Mallory’s laugh made the smile come easier.

Yes, they were all in this together.

When Isabel was safely inside her room, she closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then swore. This all felt very dreamlike, but as much as she wished to wake up, Isabel knew she would be trapped in the nightmare.

She opened her eyes, her stomach trying to snake its way up her throat.

For a brief moment, everything stopped when she saw the dress laid out on her bed.

The purple lace seemed almost too delicate, like it had been spun by an army of spiders. She reached out, fingertips barely ghosting the fabric, worried for a moment that the dress would vanish as soon as she tried to touch it, like a mirage. But it was there. It was there for her.

Her nerves returned when she remembered exactly what occasion she would be wearing this dress for.

At least it was lovely.

She dressed slowly, paying particular attention to detail. She truly wished to look her best. It was the first time she got to wear something so elegant, and perhaps the last. Isabel was going to make sure she felt like a princess because dammit, she deserved it after literally being to hell and back.

Isabel took extra care with her makeup, so pleased that she made it last this long. Foundation and concealer ran out ages ago, but she still had a small eyeshadow pallet and a bit of mascara. She had gone so long completely barefaced that seeing her eyelids shimmer stunned her for a moment, and nostalgia swelled in her chest. Finally, a familiar face in the mirror.

She drew away from the vanity and walked over to the full length mirror to see herself in her entirety. Using a ribbon, she pulled her hair back, a few loose locks framing her face. She looked like a tragically lovely heroine.

_Mad girl, can you believe what they’ve done to you… how did your father die? Was he good man? Maybe someday you’ll know…_

The words entered her mind suddenly. Lyrics from a past life, she knew that much. Who said them? She couldn’t quite recall. Not that it mattered anymore; they were lost to nuclear fallout.

“Deep breath, honey,” she imagined Constance telling her. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

“Trust,” Derek said in her mind, and for a split second Isabel could have sworn she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Just trust that it will all work out. You know what you’re doing. You always knew.”

Deep breath, right.

Isabel left her room, knowing that whether she was prepared or not, she was doing this.

Isabel knew she was a little late, but that was fine. She knew that meant that people would probably be staring at her, but that was also fine. She wouldn’t mind that at all.   
  
She stopped in the corridor when she saw Coco standing in the threshold with Mallory announcing her presence with her full name. Dear god.

“Well, so much for a grand entrance,” Isabel muttered to herself.

“You shouldn’t care for such trivial things,” Ms. Venable said, appearing at Isabel’s side. Her gaze trailed over Isabel, drinking in every detail. She tried keeping an indifferent expression but it was apparent that she was pleased.

“There wasn’t a mask,” Isabel said quickly, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. “And I didn’t have time to make one.” How could she have forgotten about the most integral part of a masquerade costume? She had just gotten so caught up in everything…

“That’s fine. Preferable.” Though Ms. Venable tried to hide it, there was no denying the upward tilt of her lips. “I want to see your face.”

Isabel’s blush deepened, and she was grateful for the poor lighting. She said nothing more; she couldn’t find the words. Tonight was the biggest night of her life.

There was no announcement when she entered the room; no one stopped what they were doing to stare in awe like they had with Coco. Yet, Isabel felt like Cinderella all the same. Her cheeks began to ache from holding back a beaming smile.

Being pleased about this was wrong. Everyone here was going to die; she shouldn’t be gleeful, she should be somber. But everyone else was happy, and it was infectious. And why shouldn’t she enjoy her last night?

Ms. Venable stood above them all, drinking in the scene like a vampire indulging in a particularly delicious selection. Oh how splendid the chaos would be.

She raised her cane and slammed it down on the ground to get everyone’s attention. When all eyes were on her, she raised her chin and announced, “Our time here as been arduous. But tonight, we celebrate. Happy Halloween.”

It wasn’t quite Halloween yet, Isabel knew that. Though she had lost track of exact days, she could feel deep down that the day had not arrived. But the spirit of Halloween was among them, and why shouldn’t they enjoy one of the best holidays?

The music was turned up as dancing began. Not quite pleased with the song, Isabel made sure no one was looking before wriggling her nose. The tune shifted from Maureen McGovern’s pretty but tiresome voice to the sultry melodies of Elsa Mars. There was a moment where people marveled at the new song and, delighted, continued to dance.

Isabel stayed on the sidelines, watching André sway with his mother, and Gallant twirled Coco.

“Not much of a dancer?” Mallory asked, sidling up to Isabel.

“I like people-watching. People are their true selves when they don’t know someone’s observing them.” And though she had known these people for eighteen months, Isabel felt like she was finally seeing everyone, both Purples and Grays. Isabel looked to Mallory, and her bittersweet smile disappeared. “Mallory, I’m so sorry.”

Mallory’s forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “For what?”

“For how unfair this all is.”

Mallory relaxed. “It’s not your fault,” she insisted. “I mean, at least I get to be here at the party. Being a Gray sucks, but it could definitely be worse. I could have closet snakes.”

In spite of everything, Isabel chuckled. She wished she could directly apologize for what she was going to do; make Mallory understand that she wasn’t apologizing for social status, but for the fact that death doesn’t discriminate, but she couldn’t. So she laughed instead because why the hell not? A last night of laughter.

Mallory’s laughter faded and her gaze fell as if ashamed. She moved away from Isabel’s side just as Ms. Venable approached and said, “Mr. Langdon will not be joining us.”

Panicked, Isabel said, “We can’t go through with the plan then. He’ll know―”

Ms. Venable put a hand on Isabel’s arm, silencing her. “Ms. Meade has it all taken care of. We will be carrying out the plan nonetheless.”

Isabel looked back out at the small swarm of Purples and Grays: people who survived the worst unnatural disaster on Earth; people who managed to beat the odds, only to have the game be rigged.

“It will all be over soon enough,” Ms. Venable continued, her hand sliding from Isabel’s arm to her hand. “My strange girl…”

For a moment, Isabel believed the affection. And perhaps, for a moment, Ms. Venable believed it too.

And then, Ms. Venable drew her hand away. “It’s time.”

The following few moments felt dreamlike. Isabel barely heard anyone; barely heard the cheers as the bobbing-for-apples activity was announced. She was viewing everyone through a veil; just someone watching a movie. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably, and as the basin of water and apples was brought out, she ducked out of the room. No, she couldn’t watch it.

Shaking violently, Isabel shut her eyes tightly as she sat on the floor of the corridor, muttering swears to herself over and over. Though she had accepted that she needed to go through with this plan, it still hit her in the chest like a brick.

Tears streamed down her face as the sounds of retching and screams reached her ears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through her sobs. She was so, so sorry, but she needed to believe the Angel of Death’s promise that it would all work out.

Silence.

Eyes still watery and skin flushed with that after-cry glow, Isabel stood and reentered the room.

Vomit and bodies littered the floor. It had been so violent; so painful. She didn’t mean for it to be; she didn’t mean to actually hurt anyone. But it was done, and soon they would all be at peace.

“Well, you certainly know how to put on quite a show,” Ms. Venable said from across the room. “Well done.”

Isabel didn’t reply. Walking through blood and vomit, she went to the basin of apples and picked one up. She stared at it as if contemplating it, though she had made her decision long ago.

“Isabel,” Ms. Venable said sharply, frowning as she watched the young woman with the poison apple in her hand.

Isabel looked to Ms. Venable. There was a twinge of satisfaction and sorrow as she watched Ms. Venable’s eyes widen in heartbreak and horror when she realized exactly what was going to happen.

Isabel sank her teeth into the crisp flesh of the apple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics mentioned in this chapter are from the song "Mad Girl" by Emilie Autumn.


	21. Chapter Twenty

Her head was spinning, and her innards felt sore and gross, as if she was suffering from a wicked hangover. She sat up slowly, her stomach twisting at the smell of acrid coffee and stale air. It smelled like that one depressive episode she fell into when Derek’s death really hit her.

The world was bleary; her vision wasn’t clearing up. Isabel reached over and her fingers found a pair of glasses, perfect prescription. She didn’t question it. Why should she? Death didn’t have to make sense.

Except she wasn’t sure if this was death. She wasn’t trapped in a cell at Briarcliff Manor, she was in her bedroom back home; back at the Murder House. Had her personal Hell changed? She wouldn’t necessarily consider this Hell.

Was it Heaven?

Or maybe the past eighteen months had all been a dream. A very strange and vivid dream. There was no evidence that the apocalypse actually happened. She was in bed, in her pajamas, like it was a Sunday morning. She expected to start smelling French toast wafting up from the kitchen.

There was no smell of French toast. In fact, there was nothing. Isabel didn’t feel anyone here. The house was completely empty. No Tate, no Moira, no Constance; totally empty. Whatever this place was, Heaven or Hell, it wasn’t her home.

Isabel shed her pajamas and walked into the bathroom. She took a shower with water so hot that her skin was red when she stepped out.

Clean, and donning jeans and sweater, Isabel felt like herself for the first time in what felt like centuries. With freshly washed hair dripping down her back, she went downstairs.

She expected to see Moira at the bottom of the steps, and was severely disappointed to find that the house was still empty. Would it always be like this? Was she to endure a never-ending lifetime of loneliness in what was supposed to be one of the most populated houses?

Despite the different feeling, it didn’t appear different. The furniture was the same, and a fire crackled in the fireplace. It was cozy, but so terribly empty. It was wrong.

Isabel wandered into the kitchen. She didn’t notice him at first. No, the first thing she noticed was the mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a stick of cinnamon. Then she noticed him.

“When she was pregnant with you, she liked hot chocolate with cinnamon too, your mother,” Larry said as he pushed the mug across the counter towards Isabel. “She probably still does.”

Isabel didn’t pick up the mug right away, staring at Larry. He wasn’t disfigured by burn scars, his clothes weren’t crumpled. Isabel couldn’t quite see it before, but there was no denying now that he was her father. He radiated warmth and comfort; Isabel was reminded of cozy Saturday mornings with sweaters and mugs of tea and a good book.

But where was Derek? Why wasn’t Derek here? He was her father; the one who loved and raised her and showed her life and the world. Did it have to do with the house?

Loneliness tingled in her fingertips. She grasped the mug of hot chocolate in her hand and took a long sip, letting the whipped cream coat her top lip in an absurd mustache. Her glasses fogged up from the heat. Larry laughed at her with a fatherly kindness as she wiped her mouth.

“I didn’t expect to end up in the house… is this where people go when they actually die?” she asked. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that she was dead. Actually dead. Going to Hell and dying were two different things to witches who could perform Descensum, and with the life she lived, death never felt quite real. But here she was: dead, according to plan.

“It’s where we go when we die,” Larry said. “Our family is tied to this house. There’s no escaping it.”

“So I’m not in Hell?”

“Purgatory.” Which made perfect sense as the house itself was its own form of purgatory in the realm of the living.

“And you’re not actually here,” Isabel said slowly as the realization came to her. Larry didn’t need to answer. It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t really there, Isabel could feel it. Or rather, she couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t feel his presence. “Well, if I’m going to be here forever, at least I won’t be alone.”

As Isabel brought the now empty mug of hot chocolate over to the sink to rinse it out, Larry said, “But you won’t be here forever.” He smiled sadly. “Seems our time together is always limited.”

Isabel’s brow furrowed, and she looked to Larry. “I’m not? But… this was the plan, wasn’t it?” This was what the Angel of Death had been referring to. Isabel had accepted, before biting the apple, that she needed to die. She never thought about what would happen afterward because she assumed that her death would be the end. The more she did think about it, though, the more she realized that yes, there did have to be something more to this because her death wouldn’t have helped much of anything. There had to be something more.

“It was, because you needed to know what happened.”

The doorbell chimed.

Isabel’s heart plummeted to her stomach. She didn’t want to move, but her feet acted of their own accord, carrying her to the foyer just as Constance came down the stairs and went to answer the door.

She knew that even if she spoke, Constance wouldn’t be able to hear her. That didn’t stop her from quietly pleading, “Don’t open the door.”

Constance opened the door, and Michael—features more boyish despite a wicked grin, and hair much shorter—stood in the threshold.

They were speaking, but much like how neither of them could hear her, Isabel couldn’t hear them. She was forced to watch the silent movie play out.

Constance shut the door in Michael’s face after he said something obviously horrific and offensive; Isabel couldn’t make out what (though she had a vague idea). On the verge of sobbing, Constance stood perfectly still. She seemed to become resolute, and walked back upstairs.

Isabel patiently waited, not wanting to watch but knowing that she needed to. So, she stood by helplessly as Constance poured herself a glass of Ardberg Scotch to wash down the bottle of pills she now had in her hand.

“Why didn’t anyone stop her?” Isabel asked when Larry came to her side, her voice shaky and meek.

“The Antichrist comes to your door and tells you he’s your grandson. Would you have wanted someone to stop you?”

“But she didn’t have to die!” Isabel argued.

“Didn’t she?”  
  
She was saddened and enraged by this revelation, and for once Isabel wasn’t mad at Constance. No, her anger lay with herself. This entire time, Isabel blamed Constance for taking advantage of her week-long absence. It never occurred to her that there was a reason for Constance’s death other than wanting to die in the house while she had the opportunity. Isabel wanted to keep arguing and denying the fact that Constance needed to die, but she couldn’t argue with the truth: there had only been one ticket to Outpost 3.

“I came home a few hours later,” Isabel recounted, sadness making her voice quiet again. She had been so, so angry when she came home to find Constance dead on the sofa. She thought Constance was just being her usual, selfish self. “Jesus, I’m an awful person.”

“Come on now, let’s not wallow in self pity,” Larry gently chided. “Time’s up.”

“Already?”

And she was suddenly sitting up, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fuck,” she muttered, the poison that killed her making her feel like crap. Before she could even process what happened to her, she was being pulled to her feet and clutched in a tight embrace where she got a mouthful of golden blonde hair. “Cordelia?”

“What are you doing here?” Cordelia asked, sounding like a worried mother.

“What are you doing here?” Isabel shot back, pulling away from her former headmistress. “How are you alive?” Cordelia should be dead! Then Isabel realized that it wasn’t just Cordelia but Madison and Myrtle as well. “How the fuck are any of you alive?”

“Long story,” Madison said. “I’ll be digging dirt out of my vagina for a month.”

Isabel scrunched up her nose in distaste at the visual. She was beyond glad that she never actually went to school with Madison. She had left the academy a year before; these girls were after her time, but she knew her sisters, and she knew that whatever Cordelia had schemed, they were capable of executing it.

“So what’s the plan?” Coco asked, and it was for the first time that Isabel noticed she was there, along with Mallory, both of them alive.

This was starting to feel like a _Twilight Zone_ episode. “Wait, wait, wait,” Isabel interrupted. “What the fuck is going on? Why did you resurrect them? No offense,” she added to Mallory. But it didn’t make any sense! Why bring back Mallory and Coco, and not the entire outpost?

Coco rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “How are you not caught up on any of this? We’re witches.”

“We had to erase their memories,” Cordelia cut in, “so that Michael wouldn’t be able to detect our plan.”

“But you didn’t erase my memory,” Isabel pointed out.

Myrtle said, “We weren’t expecting you, dear. Though really, it’s a pleasant surprise.” She removed a vape from her pocket and inhaled deeply.

“Is that a vape?”

“CBD oil, purely for medicinal purposes,” Myrtle answered as smoke streamed out from her mouth. She handed it over to Isabel, who took it without questioning. “Your name wasn’t on the listing.” Because Nancy was the one who bought the ticket, Isabel realized. Her name or her father’s wouldn’t have been attached at all. “Had we known you’d be among the motley crew, you would have been planted here with the others and involved in the plan.”

“Which is what, by the way?” Coco asked again. “I mean, other than defeating Michael. Where do we go from here?”

Isabel was very glad that she had taken a hit of CBD oil after that little explanation. Defeat Michael? “This elaborate scheme was just to kill the Antichrist? This seems like a lot of trouble.”

“A lot of necessary trouble,” Cordelia corrected. “You don’t realize how powerful he is.”

“Oh I’m sure she does,” Michael interrupted from the top of the staircase. Ms. Meade stood by his side; Ms. Venable was nowhere in sight. “No one knows you better than family, right Auntie Isabel?”

 


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

A hush fell over the crowd that would have been weirdly comedic if the situation weren’t so dire. Eyes were either on Michael or Isabel.

“Is this true?” Cordelia asked, her voice as stiff as her body. “Is he family?”

Isabel didn’t realize she was holding in her breath until Cordelia spoke to her. “You mean you didn’t know?”

“Why would I possibly know that?”

“You apparently came up with this elaborate scheme to sneak witches into the outpost. Why wouldn’t you know that?”

“If I knew that, don’t you think I would have involved you in the plan?”

“If you two don’t mind saving this for another time,” Michael drawled. “Perhaps when you are both rotting in hell?”

Cordelia waved her hand, sending Michael backward through the air until his back collided with the marble stairs. In that short span of time, Mallory disappeared with Transmutation; she knew what she had to do. No matter what happened, she needed to get to a bathtub.

Hardly fazed by this little attack, Michael merely stood right back up again, dusting off his jacket. He gave a cocky smirk and waved his arm, and everyone remaining in the room flinched, expecting a spell to hit them. Instead, Ms. Meade left her post, disappearing into the corridor to find Mallory as Michael said, “Save yourselves some dignity and surrender now.”

Scared and infuriated, Isabel strode up to Michael. “How about you save yourself some dignity and shut up!” For a second time, her knuckles connected with his nose. It was painful for the both of them but oh-so worth it.

Michael was less stunned by this punch. His eyes did water, but he hardly hesitated in reaching out and grabbing Isabel’s arm. His fingernails dug into her skin, breaking the flesh. “You’re on the wrong side, Auntie. You know I’m going to win. The two of us can walk out of here and go to the Sanctuary.”

Isabel softened for a moment, as did Michael’s grip on her arm. Fighting was dangerous, and Isabel had a sinking feeling that not everyone in the group was going to make it out alive. Would he spare them if they surrendered now?

But there was no sympathy in his eyes. He would murder every last one of them, even her. He had no intention of sparing anyone, even if they all bowed down at his feet and kissed his Italian leather shoes.

“No―” Isabel tore away from Michael’s grasp― “because when witches don’t fight, we burn.”

She took a step back and vanished.

Transmutation was not a strength of hers. It could be dangerous if done incorrectly, but it wasn’t as if she could have run away from Michael without him catching her or doing something to her. It was a calculated risk, and one worth taking.

She found herself in a corridor with Mallory, the witch running away from her. “Mallory!” Isabel exclaimed to get her attention. Mallory skidded to a halt and turned, and then there was the sound of a metallic click. Isabel whirled around to find Ms. Meade pointing a gun at them. No, her hand was the gun.

Just as that thought registered, Isabel dropped to the ground and Ms. Meade fired multiple rounds. Pain tingled down her arm as her funny bone struck the hard stone floor. Ignoring the sensation as best she could, she turned her head to see if Mallory had been hit.

Instead of laying in a bloody heap like Isabel expected to find her, Mallory was still standing, her brow furrowed in concentration. The bullets that Ms. Meade had fired were suspended in midair, as if someone had pushed the pause button on the action. The bullets turned around and then flew back at Ms. Meade, striking her in the chest, which then began to spark with electricity. Ms. Meade’s head twitched, and though she struggled, she raised her gun-hand to fire again.

Isabel thrust her feet out and kicked the unsteady Ms. Meade, toppling her over. Incapacitated, she made an easy target and Mallory held out her hand and twisted. There was a spine chilling sound of metal crunching and scraping, the bullet holes in Ms. Meade’s chest widening. But Ms. Meade was still functioning and once again raised her weapon. So, Isabel crawled over and shoved her hand into Ms. Meade’s chest cavity.

Praying she wouldn’t get electrocuted, she grabbed a fistful of wires, and pulled. A scream tore out of her throat, her skin charring from electrical burns. She threw aside the nest of wires and cradled her injured hand.

“A fucking robot?!” she yelled in both frustration and pain. “She was a robot this whole time! What the hell! Since when were robots part of this?!”

Mallory fell to her knees beside Isabel and grabbed her hand. She closed her eyes and within seconds, she mended the wounds.

Isabel stared at her hand in awe when Mallory released it. It wasn’t just healed, she realized; the damage had been completely reversed. It was magic Isabel never saw before; never knew existed before.

“Help me,” Mallory said, grabbing Isabel’s hand again, and dragging her into the nearest bedroom: Michael’s. “I need you to guard the door while I set up.”

So wrapped up in her duty, Mallory didn’t notice the dead body on the floor. But Isabel noticed. She stiffened at the sight of Ms. Venable with blood that had blossomed from a bullet hole in her chest. It took her a moment to comprehend that Ms. Venable was indeed dead.

Was she sad? Heartbroken? Isabel wasn’t sure; there was so much happening that she couldn’t register her own feelings. The word “distraught” came to mind. Yes, not sad or even particularly mournful, just distraught about the entire ordeal.

She knelt down and took Ms. Venable’s cold hand, half expecting Ms. Venable to pull it away and chastise her for unauthorized public displays of affection. It didn’t happen. Ms. Venable remained still, her eyes glassy. Or were those tears? Did she cry as she died? Did she die feeling lonely?

With difficulty, Isabel dragged herself out of her thoughts when she heard water running. She walked into the bathroom to see Mallory step fully clothed into the filling tub.

“Coast is clear?” she asked, and Isabel nodded. “Good. Now I need you to find Miss Cordelia and tell her ‘now.’”

“But what are you doing?” Isabel asked, coming to her senses and realizing that she was completely out of the loop.

“Time travel. It’s the only way to defeat Michael.”

Kill the Antichrist before he started the apocalypse, of course, it should be obvious.

“Wait!” Isabel ran to Michael’s desk as she realized what she could do. AFter a moment of searching, she found a scrap sheet of paper to scribble on which she then handed off to Mallory. “Please, this is the day and place you need to go back to. Find him before he gets to the house.”

Mallory frowned. “I can try,” she said, still unsure of this plan seeing as she had yet to perform it successfully.

“Thank you,” Isabel breathed, pulling Mallory into hug, and then leaving to find Cordelia.

It wasn’t difficult. Isabel followed the sound of Michael monologuing in one of the corridors, stopping short when she came upon Madison’s body, and then Coco’s and Myrtle’s in a heap. She swallowed a sob, and continued onward, passing by a small, decorative statue.

Michael was at the end of the corridor, facing Cordelia with his back to Isabel. Rage bubbling up inside of Isabel, she lifted the statue with telekinesis, guiding it over Michael’s head. He took everything from her: her family, her coven, her world; everything.

Cordelia looked past Michael and met Isabel’s eyes for a brief moment. “You may be the Antichrist,” she said, grinning. “But my sisters are a legion, motherfucker.”

The statue slammed down on Michael’s head with brutal force and he collapsed to the ground. There was some blood, but both Cordelia and Isabel knew better than to assume he was dead. Isabel knew now just how powerful Michael was. To think that poison ever could have stopped him…

Isabel was embraced by Cordelia for the second time that night, and Isabel eagerly returned the gesture. “Mallory,” Isabel breathed. “She says ‘now.’”

Cordelia pulled away from Isabel, her expression becoming grim. She reached into her cloak and removed the dagger she had been concealing for months.

Everything had finally fallen into place.

“Delia…?” All sense of relief left Isabel as she watched Cordelia raise the dagger. She screamed as Cordelia plunged the dagger into her own chest and fell to the floor. “Delia!” Isabel couldn’t see from tears that were suddenly streaming down her face. She dropped to the ground and pulled Cordelia into her lap.

_Mad girl, can you believe what they’ve done to you?_

She cried like she had never cried before, not knowing or understanding why Cordelia had done it. Was this part of the plan? Had this been the plan the entire time? Why? Why hadn’t Cordelia explained it? Why didn’t anyone tell her what was going on? Why was this the solution? Why why why why why why why why why why why...

The world went dark.


	23. Epilogue

Isabel didn't consider herself a particularly spoiled brat, but it was times like this when she wished she had a chauffeur. She was absolutely exhausted from her flight, and would much rather be napping in the backseat than driving home. Matters didn't improve much when she pulled onto her street and found barriers and a couple of police cars.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled over to the side of the road, and then walked towards the commotion in an effort to get to her house.

Noticing her, an officer walked over. "Miss, please, this is a crime―" he began.

"Crime scene, yeah, got that. And I live here," Isabel interrupted. "Can you please tell me what happened?"

There was a moment of hesitation, and then he said, "Body was found lying in the street. Looks like a hit-and-run." The officer paused again as his gaze dragged over to the Murder House. "At least it didn't claim another one."

Isabel grimaced. She knew it was weird to be offended, but she was. Her home wasn't entirely evil, people were just stupid. "Right, well, good luck with all this," she said before going into her house.

There didn't appear to be anyone home, but Isabel knew better. Someone was always home.

She wandered into the kitchen and sure enough, she found Moira. Much to her surprise, Moira was sitting at the kitchen island with Constance, both with cups of coffee in hand. They were both so busy talking to each other that neither of them noticed Isabel. She didn't speak up, instead marveling at this rarity.

When Moira stood to pour more coffee, she realized Isabel was standing in the threshold, leaning on the jamb. "You're home," she breathed, sounding both pleased and confused. She set the cup down and embraced Isabel tightly. "Why didn't you call to say you were on your way? I would have had lunch ready for you!"

"Long trip, didn't have the energy. Not really hungry anyway," Isabel assured Moira, hugging her back just as tightly. She had only been gone a week, but it felt like she hadn't been home for years. Aware of Constance's eyes on her, she whispered, "Can you give us a minute?" and Moira gave her one last squeeze before leaving.

Isabel smoothed out her shirt, and looked to Constance. "So, you two are getting along now?"

"Well, I'm not one to hold a grudge."

"Uh yeah, you are." Isabel paused, and her expression softened. "Thank you." Whether Constance had ulterior motives or not, Isabel did appreciate her mother trying to get along with her best friend. "Any idea about what happened outside?"

"Some poor soul flattened into the earth. Whoever did this really wanted him dead."

"Hm." Isabel studied Constance's expression for a moment to see if she knew more than she was letting on, but Isabel couldn't read her mother that well, not yet. She poured herself some much needed coffee, and refilled Constance's cup. She sat down, thumb rubbing the rim of her mug. "So tired," she groaned.

"Well, rest tonight. Everything can wait until tomorrow."

"Not everything. I want to talk… something that's been bothering me."

"You're still upset about Derek."

Isabel frowned. "Are you reading my mind?"

Constance chuckled softly. She put a gentle hand on Isabel's wrist. "No, darling. It's written all over your face. And long trips get you thinking. He's been gone for just about three years and you've never visited his grave."

"That's what I want to talk about. I um, I'm going to go tomorrow. To the cemetery. Closure and all that."

"Good. You need it."

Constance sipped her coffee and Isabel ignored hers. Then, Isabel asked, "Will you come with me?"

A surprised silence followed, and Constance raised her eyebrows. "Of course."

Isabel seemed to relax. It felt like her first time relaxing in ages. "Thank you." She drank her coffee. It had never tasted so good.

Everything seemed to taste exceptionally good. Perhaps because she was finally home. After three helpings at dinner, she went to Derek's study. Her study.

She stood in front of the bookcase. Not a speck of dust in sight, thanks to Moira's diligence. She grabbed a random book off of the shelf: War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. Her heart ached as the books were disturbed, but holding the novel in her hand brought a sense of comfort that she had been missing for years.

Isabel opened the book and rifled through the pages, letting her fingertips caress each edge. As she did so, a thick rectangle fell to the floor; an envelope.

Frowning, Isabel picked it up and read it over. It read "Happy Birthday! –Nancy and the gang." She opened the envelope, pulling out a plane ticket with the destination being a place called Outpost 3.

"What's that?" Moira asked from the doorway. In her hand was a large mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon.

"Don't know," Isabel admitted. "It's from Dad's agent… so probably a dumb joke." She put the ticket back into the book, which she then replaced on the shelf before gladly accepting the hot chocolate from Moira.

One day she would take a book from the shelf and read it; mess it up a little. But not yet. She would be going to the cemetery in the morning; one step at a time. That would be enough for now. She was home with family, and the house was happy.

This was enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this. This will most likely be the last installment of the Misery Series, at least for a while. You have all been so kind!


End file.
